Corruption of Blood
by BrunetteAuthorette99
Summary: When a Guild job takes Ronan Sorleigh into Skyrim, he finds himself caught up in a vast conspiracy that has dire consequences for all of Tamriel. With a mysterious, beautiful vampire by his side, he must race to thwart the insidious plot... as well as confront his own dark legacy. A sequel to "The Bear and the Wolf" that loosely follows the Dawnguard questline; eventual OC/Serana.
1. The Lost Man's Reprieve

**************[A/N] Heeeyyy, everybody! What's goin' on with y'all? I missed you guys! No, really: I did. :D  
**

**************Long story short, I've been having a fantastic summer (and I hope that that will continue for what I have left of it). After I finished "The Bear and the Wolf," I wrote my first-ever SKM fill and then turned my attention to fine-tuning some of my own original fiction in the hopes that I will be able to self-publish it one day. But the siren song of fanfiction is not so easily resisted, so I decided to start "Corruption of Blood." Thus, this chapter has been posted for your reading enjoyment. **

**************Welcome back, readers, reviewers, and lurkers! Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride!**

**************[D****************************************************************************************ISCLAIMER] I do not own The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or anything related to it; that's Bethesda's deal, not mine (sadly). However, Ronan Sorleigh is my original character, and he belongs to me.**

* * *

_**CHAPTER **__**I**__** – **__**The Lost Man's Reprieve**_

Rain thudded down on the inn's roof, keeping up a constant, dull hammering that was slightly muffled by the straw thatching it. Once or twice, Aegir found himself glancing up from the bar to scan the ceiling for any leaks trickling from the floor above; the Lost Man's Reprieve had only been rebuilt a month ago, and he was still worried about the structural integrity.

_Still, a roof over your head is better than nothing, _he reminded himself with a grim chuckle, leaning over the counter to survey the main floor. _Better than some lean-to shelters in the ruins of a ghost town, _that's_ for certain._

His weary eyes roved around the long, low-ceilinged room, scanning tonight's patrons. Some off-duty guards were playing dice over at a table by the fire, and a few townspeople talked quietly over a pint or two of mead nearby. He knew all of these men; some he'd worked with over the construction taking place the past few months, others he'd more recently become acquainted with, both as neighbors and friends.

Everyone except one.

The only lone figure was a tall man in blue mage's robes – _likely an elf,_ the publican thought, his eyes narrowing – sitting at a corner table, leafing through a book. A hood obscured his face, but the light from the hearth caught the yellow tint of his fingers as they traced over the pages.

_Altmer. _Aegir stiffened, all of his da's tales about the Great War and all of his own memories from the Civil War coming back to him: recounting golden armor and weapons flashing in the Cyrodilic sun, remembering black robes and the crackling of magic. _One of the Thalmor? A spy? _

He shook his head, trying to dispel his unease. _No, it can't be. No Thalmor would dare set foot into Skyrim... not now. _Yet he couldn't tear his eyes away, couldn't turn his back for fear of what the mysterious stranger _might_ do.

The door opened, the full sound of the downpour outside distracting the publican from the Altmer. He turned his head just in time to see a young man wrapped in a soaking-wet fur cloak and hood close the door behind him, shutting out the rain again.

Pushing back the hood from his face, the young man ran a hand through his damp, unkempt dusty-brown hair, sighing. He shrugged the cumbersome cloak off his shoulders, revealing a knapsack against his back and faded, well-worn dark leathers.

"You can put it over by the fire," Aegir called, gesturing towards the chimney.

The young man glanced over at him, smiling slightly. "Many thanks." Pulling out an empty chair, he draped the sodden garment over it. Some of the soldiers gambling nearby looked over at the cloak for a brief moment, and then returned their attention to their game.

"You know," the young man said, sitting down on a stool at the bar, "I bought that cloak because I was expecting it to be _snowing _in Skyrim – not raining."

The publican laughed, the sound dispelling his earlier suspicion and fear. "You have to expect _any_ kind of weather in these parts, lad. Just be glad we're not up further north."

"Oh, I am. It's plenty cold enough for me right here." The young man propped up his elbows on the counter. "Got any Cyrodilic brandy?"

"I'm sure I have a bottle or two around somewhere." Crouching down briefly to search his stock, Aegir found a bottle gathering dust on the bottom shelf and stood up, plunking it down in front of his customer. "You have the coin, traveler?"

Nodding, the young man fished out his coin purse and counted out the septims, pushing the pile across the counter before taking the brandy.

Curious, Aegir observed the man across from him as he drank. He was a Breton, perhaps in his mid-twenties or so, with keen olive eyes, a crooked nose, and a square jaw covered in razor stubble. His leathers were like none the publican had seen before: myriads of straps and buckles, protective shoulder and knee pads, pouches and pockets. A steel dagger and sword hung from his belt alongside a small, yet bulging leather satchel.

Only one thing was certain: this man was no simple traveler.

"Looking to rent a room for the night, traveler?" Aegir asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

"Yes." The young man took another sip of brandy. "I've been on the road from Markarth since this morning; it'll be nice to get some rest."

Pulling out a ledger, a quill, and a pot of ink from under the counter, the publican started a new entry. "Name?"

"Roseign. Loran Roseign." He pulled his gloves off and laid them on the counter, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. "Put me down for one night."

"Sure thing." Aegir made the necessary notations and pushed the ledger off to the side. "Where are you from?"

"Daggerfall." Loran smiled. "And as you can tell, I'm not a very experienced traveler."

The publican laughed. "You've gotten out of the country; that's better than what most people accomplish in their lifetime."

"I suppose you're right," the Breton agreed, taking another sip of the brandy. "Being able to go to new places and experience new things is a blessing."

"Ever been to Skyrim before, then?" Taking out the cleaning rag from the belt of his apron, Aegir began to wipe down the counter.

"No, this'll be my first time here." Loran took a break from drinking to turn over his gloves to allow them to dry a little more. "I must confess that I actually have no idea where I am, but it's a good thing that I got here before the storm got worse."

"About a month or two ago, you wouldn't have found much lodging here," the publican told him grimly. "This is Helgen."

"_Helgen_?" The Breton leaned forward, his eyes alight with curiosity. "The town that was burned down by that dragon?"

"The very same." Aegir started working on rubbing away a very persistent stain on the wood. "It lay in disrepair for quite some time, but the High King and Queen ordered Helgen to be rebuilt maybe six months ago; as you've probably seen, we're still working." He shrugged. "But the inn's up and running, and that's what I care about."

"Did you see them? The High King and Queen?" Loran asked eagerly.

The publican smiled. _Another royalty-loving Breton... what else is new? _"Not the Queen, but Ulfric Stormcloak himself came to the laying of the first cornerstone."

"That must have been quite the event," the Breton remarked. "Still, it's a shame that you weren't able to see the Dragonborn herself. Songs about her exploits are sung in the courts of Daggerfall, you know." He laughed. "The bards are full to bursting with praise for her, and they all but exploded with joy when they heard that she'd given birth."

"Imagine the whole of Skyrim doing that, and you'll have our reaction to the new prince," Aegir chuckled, tucking his cleaning rag away. "After so many years of misery, this land deserves some happiness –" His voice trailed off as he looked up, his eyes unconsciously going to the corner table.

The Altmer there was no longer reading his book, but rather watching the two of them.

"What is it?" Loran asked, finishing off the last of his drink.

Tearing his eyes away, the publican turned back to his customer. "I wouldn't look now, but the elf at the table over there is watching us." _Watching _you,_ perhaps?_

Despite the warning, the Breton turned his head to look before facing Aegir again. "I wouldn't worry about it. I was supposed to meet him here." He stood up, grabbing his gloves and leaving the empty bottle on the counter. "Thank you for the drink."

Aegir nodded, trying to keep from frowning as Loran made his way over the corner table. He wasn't sure of what, but something about this just didn't sit right with him.

Trying to shake his unease off, he turned back to the bar as the muffled pounding of rain and the muted rumbling of thunder sounded over the roof.

* * *

Ronan quietly sighed, slipping his still-damp gloves into one of the pouches on his bandolier as he walked. He wasn't a particularly good liar, and he never had been fond of lying to others anyway; thankfully, the innkeeper didn't seem to suspect anything.

The Altmer glanced up with a coolly disinterested look as he sat down at the corner table. "You are Ronan Sorleigh, I presume?" he asked in a low, crisp voice.

"I am." The Breton leaned back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. "And you are?"

"Valmir. I am a scholar from Firsthold." He shook Ronan's hand. "Your Guildmaster, Jolaine Marat, spoke quite highly of you, you know."

Ronan smiled slightly. "I _am_ Mistress Marat's protégée, after all; a teacher praising their student is only natural."

"Not like she did." Valmir closed his book, placing it by a goblet of wine. "When I approached her with this contract and told her I needed the best thief she knew for the job, she immediately volunteered you."

"Then I'm flattered that you chose me," the Breton said honestly. "So what's this 'job' that you speak of, Valmir?"

The scholar glanced around the Lost Man's Reprieve to make sure no one was listening in before continuing. "First of all, Mister Sorleigh, you must understand that I do not need anything 'stolen,' per say... _recovered_, rather. If I had a choice, I would have done this by myself, because time is of the essence – however, given the circumstances, I felt it prudent to have some specialized backup."

"I understand." _That_ time, his words weren't exactly true. "Please continue."

"I am a scholar of ancient religions," Valmir said, lacing his fingers together, "and for the last decade, I have been writing my masterpiece: a comprehensive volume on the Dragon Cult. It is nearly finished now, but there is one last thing that I wish to address: Forelhost."

Ronan frowned. "Forelhost? What's that?"

"It is an ancient fortress in the mountains of the Rift, dating back to the first era or even earlier, and it was there that the remaining members of the Dragon Cult made their last stand against the army of High King Harald." The Altmer's eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. "The history hidden within those walls... ah, it is almost too great to comprehend."

"So if this is just an archeological expedition, what do you need me for?"

Once again, Valmir did a quick check for eavesdroppers before continuing in an even lower voice than before. "I believe that within the ruins of Forelhost, there lies the body of one of the Cult's rulers: a Dragon Priest, Rahgot by name. In addition to exploring Forelhost itself to provide insight on the Cult's strongholds and way of life, I wish to retrieve Rahgot's mask and staff – the emblems of his power – in order to study the magic that they hold."

"And this is where I come in," the Breton finished.

The scholar nodded. "Precisely. Due to my mastery of the arcane arts, I am quite capable of defending myself, but as I wish to avoid the traps and pitfalls that lie in store, I realized that I would need someone with a light step and quick fingers."

"Why contact the High Rock Guild, though?" Ronan mused, crossing his arms. "I'm sure that Alinor has a Guild, and I know that the Skyrim Guild is based nearby in Riften; either would be logical choices."

A muscle ticked in Valmir's jaw. "If you really must know, Alinor's Guild was wiped out long ago, and if I went to the Skyrim Guild, I would most certainly be risking my neck. Nords are not known for their tolerance towards elves." He glared in the direction of the bartender to make his point. "Guildmaster Marat, on the other hand, has long been a friend of mine. I have always trusted her with matters that require considerable discretion such as this."

He turned back to the Breton. "I need not tell you that this is one of those matters. I have guarded my research jealously from more cutthroat scholars than I for a decade, and I will not treat this expedition any differently. It must be kept secret at all costs."

Ronan nodded. "Of course. When do you wish to leave?"

"First thing in the morning." Valmir stood, tucking his book under his arm. "Forelhost is a day and a half from here, at the very least, and I'd like to get there as soon as possible. I hope you have a horse, because that is the only way we're going to get there in a timely manner."

"I do. I will be ready tomorrow morning." The Breton stood up as well, tilting his head slightly. "I look forward to working with you, Valmir."

The Altmer smiled, but it did not quite reach his eyes. "As do I, Mister Sorleigh. As do I."

* * *

**[A/N] Review, please!You _know_ I love those... ;)**

**The first side note of the fanfic: as with "The Bear and the Wolf," I will try to post updates on Saturdays. But due to the fact that I'm also juggling the edits/revisions/overhauls of my original fiction, the first couple of updates might be a little irregular, so I ask for your patience in that regard.**

**Once again: welcome back, everyone! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing this!**


	2. One Step Ahead

**************[A/N] Hey, a chapter that was posted early! I impress myself sometimes. :)  
**

**************[D****************************************************************************************ISCLAIMER] I do not own The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or anything related to it; that's Bethesda's deal, not mine (sadly). However, Ronan Sorleigh and Kajsa Red-Blade are my original characters, and they belong to me.**

* * *

_**CHAPTER **__**II**__** – **__**One Step Ahead**_

_My love,_

_Words cannot express how sorry I am that I had to keep my most recent assignment from you, and of course, you were completely right when you said that I shouldn't have. I should have told you from the start; perhaps you could have even dissuaded me from doing so in the first place. _

_When you return from the job in Skyrim, I will be waiting for you – and I will be ready to make things right between us. Until then, my heart will be filled with longing for you._

_Always yours,_

_J. M._

"What are you reading?" From the back of his horse, Valmir craned his head over.

"Just my map." Folding the letter, Ronan quickly tucked it back into one of the pouches on his bandolier; he had no intention of telling his employer about his personal life. "Are you absolutely sure we're going the right way?"

"Yes, I'm sure," the Altmer answered testily, wrapping his own fur cloak a little bit tighter around him. "I sent some of my own personal guards to scout out the area; one of them returned a week ago to mark out the route on my map. And should you happen to get lost, just remember that Nordic barrows can be spotted from miles away."

The Breton was going to correct Valmir's condescending "you" to "we," but he decided to save his breath. They'd been following a winding, barely-beaten path up the side of a snow-covered, craggy mountain for what seemed like hours with nothing to show for it, and even with his cloak and gloves (fortunately dry now), the wind was biting through to his skin and chilling him to the bone. He tried not to think about the hot stew he'd had at the Vilemyr Inn last night, but that was becoming increasingly more difficult with every step his horse took.

_Just focus on something else, Ronan, _he told himself firmly. _Occupy your mind elsewhere. _"I must confess, I've never undertaken an expedition into a barrow before," he managed. "What sorts of... _complications_ can I expect?"

Thankfully, Valmir was more than happy to expound. "Ancient structures often run the risk of structural compromises, but many barrows are discovered mercifully intact. However, there are still plenty of traps to worry about, not to mention draugr."

Ronan frowned. "'Draugr'?"

"The undead, Mister Sorleigh. Nord legend holds that they were cursed with undeath for serving the dragons, but scholarly investigation has proven that to be fraudulently false. Have you ever by chance read Bernadette Bantien's fascinating study _Amongst the Draugr_?" Without waiting for an answer, the Altmer plowed on. "It would seem that in ancient days, the dragon priests who were buried in these barrows killed, reanimated, and then sealed their followers into the barrow with them. These cultists, now draugr, periodically awaken in order to worship the priests and transfer their own energy to them to maintain the undeath of their leader. It's quite intriguing."

The Breton shuddered, but it wasn't entirely out of the cold.

"Oh, you need not fear, Mister Sorleigh," Valmir dismissed flippantly. "Draugr may look fearsome, but they're not very intelligent. With any luck, the guards that I sent to scope out Forelhost will have cleared it of at least half of the draugr in there."

"That would make this dragon priest easier to kill, correct?" Ronan asked. "If the draugr that lend him their life force are dead, then this Rahgot should be weakened quite a bit."

"Yes, something like that." The Altmer brought his horse to a halt and pointed up ahead. "Look there, Mister Sorleigh. Do you see that?"

The Breton squinted through the translucent veil of swirling snow. Up the path, beyond a lone pine tree, a stone tower loomed, nearly blending into the mountain that it stood beside.

"We're here." Valmir dismounted, leading his horse over to the tree and tying the reins around the trunk. "We'll have to go the rest of the way on foot; there's no way for horses to get up."

Ronan nodded and followed his employer's lead. Adjusting his cloak and tugging the hood further over his face, he trudged up the mountainside. As he drew closer, he could make out more of the tower, including a stone bridge that jutted out from the side.

"In here." The Altmer gestured to a doorway in the base of the tower.

The Breton ducked inside. There was a narrow set of stairs leading up to a landing and he ascended after the scholar, being careful not to slip.

Valmir paused at the landing. "This is likely the only way up to Forelhost – well, the only established way, anyhow." The excited gleam was back in his eyes again. "Any invaders would have to come up through here one at a time, and they would most certainly have been shot by the cultists from those battlements over there." He pointed to somewhere beyond the doorway. "A most ingenious defense mechanism, even for a relatively primitive people."

Ronan peered out, his breath catching in his throat. The bridge that he'd seen earlier continued their path towards high stone walls covered with snow: ancient, crumbling, but by some miracle, still standing.

The Altmer sighed almost wistfully. "I wish your father could have been here. He would have jumped at the chance to go on this expedition."

Slowly, the Breton tore his gaze from Forelhost's battlements to stare at the scholar in confusion. "Pardon?"

"Your father was well-known by my colleagues for his interest in ancient ruins: Nordic, Dwemer, Ayleid," Valmir explained. "Not exactly a _scholarly_ interest, mind you, but he had a similar skill set to yours and was in very high demand for this kind of work. He and I worked together on many expeditions before –"

Ronan shook his head. "I – I think you must be mistaken," he managed. "I never knew my parents; I grew up in an orphanage."

The Altmer's brow furrowed. "But – I – you look just like –" He huffed. "Oh, never mind. Let's move on." He inched through the doorway, turning up a steep wooden ramp.

Gingerly, the Breton followed him up the ramp and over the bridge, being sure to watch his footing. The two of them reached the end in no time and started off towards the walls. As they drew closer to the imposing ruins, Ronan felt as though he was shrinking, while the already-massive battlements seemed to grow larger and larger.

He followed the scholar into a courtyard of sorts; here, the wind was much less intense, but snow still coated the ground. Sparse, scraggly vegetation grew at the base of the walls, as well as a few more lone pine trees. There were a few small tents pitched near the center, forming a sort of circle around a dead campfire.

The Breton stopped in his tracks. "Where are your guards?"

"Probably inside, clearing the entrance." Valmir's answer was swift and assured, but his eyes betrayed his worry. "Come along, Mister Sorleigh." His steps a little quicker than before, he strode towards the tents.

After a moment, Ronan followed him, scanning the battlements as he walked. His gaze rested on a strange structure on top of the one ahead of them: a small, curved wall with ornate carvings around the top – a head of some kind, maybe? – and flanked by two pillars.

Suddenly, a shadowy shape flitted out from the strange wall.

Startled, the Breton blinked, but it was gone as soon as it had come.

There was a shout from the tents, and his head snapped back around to see Valmir running back towards him. "They're dead!" he shouted.

"What?" Ronan yelled back.

"Didn't you hear me? My guards are –" The Altmer stiffened abruptly and then suddenly collapsed face-first into the snow, the straight shaft of an arrow protruding from his back.

The scholar's muffled cries of agony echoing in his ears, the Breton dove for a nearby pile of rubble, sliding behind the fallen stones. Drawing his bow from his back, Ronan peered around his hiding place, his heart pounding.

There was a flicker of movement from above, and the shadowy figure lightly leapt down from the battlements, stowing its own bow and drawing a long, thin blade. As it approached the gravely injured Valmir, the Breton noticed that there was a large, cloth-covered bundle on its back.

The Altmer tried to struggle to his knees, facing the figure. "You – you will not get away with this!" he croaked, trying to summon destruction magic in one hand. The spell fizzled out abruptly and he collapsed again.

"No, _you _won't get away with this." Ronan gave a start at the low, hoarse, but distinctly feminine voice of the figure. "I don't know what the Dominion's game is, but rest assured, I'm going to put an end to whatever you're planning." She stopped, the scholar's body resting almost by her feet. "But for starters, I'll put an end to you."

Raising her blade, she stabbed Valmir with one precise move, and the Altmer went limp. Kneeling by him, the woman removed her sword, wiping it off on the snow.

Ducking back behind the rubble, the Breton struggled to keep his breathing steady. He'd failed before he'd even begun. His employer was dead, whoever this woman was most likely had the artifacts they were looking for, and he would probably be dead soon enough as well.

"You, behind the rubble." The woman's voice rang out, startling him again. "Come out now, and don't try anything stupid."

Hesitating for a moment, Ronan put away his bow and slowly stood up, his hands raised.

The woman stood in front of him, her sword still unsheathed and gleaming in the light of the rising moon. Now that he could see her a little more clearly, he could see that she wore leathers like his, only hers had been dyed black and the buckles on it looked like silver. A heavy bearskin cloak shielded her from the elements, and a hood covered her face.

"You don't look as though you're with the Dominion," she mused. "But appearances can be deceiving..."

"The _Aldmeri_ Dominion?" the Breton repeated, dumbfounded. He glanced down at Valmir's body. _I was hired by an agent of the Aldmeri Dominion?_

"Yes, the Aldmeri Dominion," she snapped, her voice sharp and cutting. "What other 'Dominion' would I be referring to?"

"I – I'm not with the Dominion," he said, trying to keep his voice level. "I was just hired by him, that's all. My name is Ronan Sorleigh and I'm with the High Rock Thieves Guild –"

"_What_ did you say your name was?" she interrupted.

"Ronan Sorleigh," he repeated, a little fearfully. _Another person who thinks they know me?_

The woman was silent for a moment, as if mulling over the information. Then: "It's good to meet a fellow thief." Mercifully, she sheathed her sword, but she did not approach any closer. "I am a Senior Operative with the Skyrim Thieves Guild."

Ronan could barely hide his relief. "I – it's good to meet you, too." _Even if under somewhat strained circumstances... _"But why are you up here anyway?"

Another pause. "It would probably be best if you heard this from the Guildmaster himself. If you come with me, I can lead you back to Riften – and maybe you can tell us just what you were doing as well." Her tone was factual, but the Breton could not mistake the veiled threat underlying it.

_If I don't go, it'll probably turn out badly for me... she may claim to be a thief, but she kills like an assassin. _"Very well," he said, swallowing his fear. "I'll come with you."

* * *

**[A/N] I think you all can guess who the woman is... in the meantime, don't forget to review!  
**


	3. Welcome Home

******************[A/N] Huh. I have clearly proven that I _can_ stick to a schedule on this fic. :) We'll see how well I do when school rolls around again next week, though...**

******************[D****************************************************************************************ISCLAIMER] I do not own The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or anything related to it; that's Bethesda's deal, not mine (sadly). However, Ronan Sorleigh and Kajsa Red-Blade are my original characters, and they belong to me.**

* * *

_**CHAPTER **__**III**__** –**__** Welcome Home**_

Ronan stared at the street ahead of him. It was narrow, with squat wooden houses on one side and manors with high porches and shingled roofs on the other. Grass and weeds poked up through the cobblestones, and the smell of fish and dampness was everywhere, even more so with the light drizzle coming from the night sky. There were a few guards in Riften's purple livery on patrol, but other than them, no one else was out on the street.

_Riften. _His shoulders slumped. The city was a far cry from the splendor of Daggerfall; he almost found it hard to believe that there was a thriving Guild hidden in the depths of this rat-hole. _A rat-hole that I never thought I'd return to..._

"Thinking about something?"

Startled by the voice, he turned his head. It was the mysterious woman, standing beside him with her hood still shrouding her face. Now that she was closer, he observed that she was almost as tall as him, but slighter in form. _Probably not a Nord... a Breton like me or an Imperial, perhaps?_

"It – it's just been a while since I was back here," he said finally.

"Here last on business?" Her voice was sharp.

The Breton shook his head. "No. I – I grew up here. In Honorhall Orphanage." _A little-known plane of Oblivion..._

A pause. "No wonder you're so eager to come back." There was some softness behind her sarcasm. "Just stay close to me and keep your hood up. Grelod's been dead for a while, but we'll steer clear all the same."

"Really?" Ronan found himself smiling, the first of the night, it seemed. "How?"

"Dark Brotherhood contract put out by one of the orphans." The woman began to walk down the street, her fur cloak rustling in her wake. "I think we can both agree she had it coming."

The Breton nodded, following her over one of the many bridges spanning the canal and heading towards the center of town. In the midst of a few scattered shops, the inn, and the smithy, a low stone wall encircled the marketplace with its rickety stalls and old well. At this hour, no one was around here either, but he knew as well as any Riften native that the market was overflowing with people at the height of the day, making it a prime target for pickpockets and thieves...

"_Stop, thief!"_

_Gasping aloud, the scrawny boy whirled around and ran in the opposite direction from the food stall, clutching his stolen apple to his chest. Looking back for an instant, he saw the two guards running after him, swords drawn._

_He felt a strange sort of desperation – not necessarily about being thrown in jail or cut down on the street, but about them catching him and sending him back to the orphanage. No one, not even the other orphans, knew he was outside Honorhall, and Grelod would beat him if she caught him sneaking out again. _

_Just as he was about to turn his head again, he ran into something solid and sprawled back onto the cobblestones. His hard-won apple fell, rolling from his hands, and he scrabbled for it desperately._

_A swift hand snatched up the apple, and another hand grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him to his feet. It was then that he realized that he didn't run into something, but some_one: _a woman wearing brown leathers, flaming red hair pulled back in a thick braid_

_He opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a whisper. "Just go along with what I say." Crouching down, she wiped some of the grime off of his face. "Gervais, what have I told you about playing in the marketplace?" she scolded loudly._

_Behind him, the guards stopped, apparently as dumbfounded as he was. "Ma'am, is this your son?" one of them ventured cautiously._

"_Oh, no," the woman said, giving the guards a dazzling smile. "He's my sister's boy; I'm watching him for the afternoon. Why do you ask?"_

"_He stole an apple, ma'am. You know what the punishment for thieves is." The guard's tone was now ominous. "He'll have to come up to the Keep with us."_

"_Nonsense! I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding; my Gervais just forgot to pay for it." The woman flipped a small pouch of septims to the still-shocked guards. "Would you be so kind as to give that to the stall owner?"_

_After a moment, the guard who caught the septims nodded. "Very well. But keep an eye on the child, ma'am... or else." With that, he and his comrade turned away, heading back towards their posts._

_Smiling to herself, her dark eyes sparkling, the woman addressed him. "Nocturnal was not favoring you today, little one."_

"_I ain't little," he protested, "I'm fourteen. I'm just small for my age."_

"_In my line of work, that's not necessarily a bad thing." Her smile faded as she scrutinized his face. "What's your name?"_

"_Ronan. Jus' Ronan. I live in Honorhall, so I got no family." He scowled._

_The woman continued to look at him thoughtfully, her brow furrowed. "How long have you lived there?"_

"_All my life. I dunno who my parents were." He grabbed the apple from her; she made no move to stop him. "I don't wanna live there. I hate it."_

_Something in her eyes softened. "Would you rather become someone like me?"_

_Looking at her armor, it suddenly struck him. "You're a –"_

"_Shhh." The thief put a finger to his lips. "Yes, I am. I can train you and make you one of us; I just need to ask my Guildmaster first. Would you like that, Ronan?"_

_Images flashed through his mind: him in his own set of Guild leathers, flitting about Riften at nighttime like a ghost, stealing gold and jewels from mansions and palaces, becoming the richest man and the most legendary thief ever. But the first image was him leaving Honorhall for good._

"_Yes!"_

"Ronan." The mysterious woman had stopped in front of him, her arms crossed and her tone warning. "You're supposed to follow me, remember?"

Ronan shook himself out of his memory. "Yes, of course," he answered quietly, starting to walk again. But as they skirted the wall and crossed another bridge to a set of stairs leading down into the canal streets, he couldn't help but look back at the market, as if hoping that the woman from his memories would be standing there.

She was right about him wanting to be a thief. But he'd never seen her again after that day.

* * *

After stumbling through the sewers of Riften (_the Ratway, _he reminded himself; he'd heard plenty of horror stories about it as a child) after the mysterious woman, Ronan found himself standing at the edge of a dark, circular chamber with a low ceiling supported by stone arches, the space itself housing a cistern filled with dark, stagnant water. The lighting here wasn't much better than it had been in the Ratway; the only illumination came from a few scattered braziers and the round skylight over the water. Across the way, he could see a wooden dock, supported with wooden beams and rigged up with ropes to keep it afloat, extending into the cistern, as well as walkways that connected it and the stone floor and, beside one of these, the small hanging sign that advertised the bar known as the Ragged Flagon.

The Breton struggled not to wrinkle his nose, more out of the smell than the shabby appearance. "Is this the Guild's headquarters?"

The mysterious woman only shrugged in response. "I suppose you could call the Flagon that – or _part _of it, at least." She strode off around the edge of the cistern and towards one of the walkways. "Come on. Keep your hood up."

Ronan hesitantly followed her, glancing around as he did so. The bouncer, a burly Nord man clad in leather armor with dirty blonde muttonchops, scowled at them as they approached, but grudgingly stood aside for the mysterious woman. The Breton continued to feel the man's suspicious eyes on him even after he passed.

The Ragged Flagon itself held a few other tables and chairs scattered about the stone floor, as well as some out on the dock over the cistern waters. A single chandelier hung from the sloping ceiling, casting shadows on the stacks of barrels and crates that bordered the bar. He was surprised to see a few other thieves in the bar: a sallow, pale Imperial woman and a paunchy Breton man with a yellow goatee playing cards at a table littered with mead bottles and papers, along with a rangy Redguard woman with thick black hair twisted back into a bun drinking at the bar. The barkeep, a wiry Nord man with a thin mustache, swept up some dirt in a distant corner.

Approaching the table of thieves, the mysterious woman cleared her throat. "Who's winning, Vex? You or Del?"

"I am, for now," the Imperial answered. Ronan privately though that she might have been pretty had she not looked so disdainful. "Thankfully, Delvin's a horrible cheater."

Her opponent chuckled. "Aw, don't say that, luv. You know I'll win in the end – an' you'll have to keep your end o' the bet."

Vex scowled. "Shut up, Delvin, and play your card."

Still chortling to himself, Delvin took a card out of his hand and placed it down on the stack between them before turning to the mysterious woman. "So, what's it gonna be tonight, Guildmaster? Here for business or pleasure?"

Ronan gaped. _She's the Guildmaster of the Skyrim Thieves Guild?_

"Brynjolf's the Guildmaster now, Del, not me," the woman corrected flatly. "I gave him the title when I got married."

"I may have the title, but you're still wielding the influence and calling all the shots, lass." A broad-shouldered, red-haired Nord man stepped out of the shadows shrouding the doorway by the bar. "Not that I'm complaining; gives me less paperwork."

"Bryn!" There was a smile in her voice as the mysterious woman turned around to give the thief a hug. "How have you been?"

"Right as rain, lass. Haven't seen you in person in a while, though." Brynjolf pulled out a stool and sat on it, leaning back against the bar. "How's Ulfric?"

"He's well enough. Busy, but then again, so am I."

Ronan frowned. _Did – did I hear that right? Is she –_

The Nord thief smiled. "How about the babe?"

"Torgnyr is... oh, he's wonderful." There was an obvious fondness in her voice. "He's going to look just like his father when he grows up."

Brynjolf laughed, but his good humor faded as his eyes shifted to Ronan. "Who's this?"

"You know who he is, Bryn," she said quietly.

Ronan swallowed. _So they were looking for me... but why?_

The Nord thief scrutinized him for a moment, his eyes narrowing. Then: "Lass, you've got some explaining to do. How did –"

"Not here, Bryn," she hissed, shooting a glance at a curious Vex and Delvin. "Come with me. You too," she added, glancing at Ronan.

Trying to suppress his unease, the Breton thief followed the two Senior Operatives into a narrow corridor off the main bar, and then into a small, nearly bare room: a table with two chairs, two beds pushed back against the stone wall, a shelf filled with ledgers. Brynjolf sat down in one of the chairs and motioned for Ronan to sit as well; the mysterious woman opted to lean against the wall, her unseen eyes boring into him.

"What's going on?" Ronan asked suddenly, his eyes darting to the woman. _As if she would give me any answers..._

"You can take off your hood now, Ronan," she said, ignoring his question.

Sighing, the Breton pushed his hood back from his face, squinting in the dim room.

Brynjolf inhaled sharply. "Bloody Oblivion. He_ does_ look like –"

"One thing at a time, Bryn," the mysterious woman interrupted. "Karliah should be back from Raven Rock soon enough; we can ask him about _that_ then."

"Ask me about _what_?" Ronan snapped. "Who are you two and what do you want with me?"

The Nord thief chewed his lip for a moment before responding. "The name's Brynjolf. I'm the Guildmaster of the Skyrim Thieves Guild." He glanced towards the mysterious woman. "Care to introduce yourself, lass?"

After a moment, the woman removed her own hood. Ronan was surprised to see that she was a Nord, albeit one with the high cheekbones and slight figure more characteristic of a Breton. Her umber hair was pulled back in several small braids, and three jagged scars ran down her cheek.

"Kajsa Stormcloak: Dragonborn and High Queen of Skyrim. I'd add my other titles, but they're not really necessary." Dark brown eyes bored into him. "Now, why don't you tell me what you were doing with a Thalmor agent?"

* * *

**[A/N] Things are looking a little serious for Ronan, eh? Don't forget to review, y'all! ;)**


	4. Handling the Truth

******************[A/N] ... It's that terrible time of year again: back-to-school time (AKA, not-enough-time-for-writing time). But despite the homework mountain looming over my head, I will continue to make time for fanfiction no matter what!  
**

******************By the way, guess who got a beta invite to _Elder Scrolls Online_? ;)**

******************[D****************************************************************************************ISCLAIMER] I do not own The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or anything related to it; that's Bethesda's deal, not mine (sadly). However, Ronan Sorleigh and Kajsa Red-Blade are my original characters, and they belong to me.**

* * *

_**CHAPTER**__** IV**__** –**__** Handling the Truth**_

"I'm not with the Thalmor!" Ronan protested. "He just hired me –!"

Kajsa cut him off. "Who's 'he,' exactly? Do you know his name?"

"Valmir. He said he was a scholar from Firsthold who studied ancient religions," the Breton answered quickly, scrabbling through his memories. "He said he was in Skyrim because he was writing a book on the Dragon Cult –"

The Dragonborn sighed irritably. "Why does it_ always_ have to be the Dragon Cult?" she muttered, almost to herself. "What is it about them that make reasonable people foolish enough to seek out more about them?"

"Lass," Brynjolf said warningly, "perhaps you should let the lad tell his story before you start peppering him with questions."

Scowling, Kajsa crossed her arms and waited.

The Guildmaster turned to Ronan. "Go on, lad. We're listening."

Swallowing, the Breton began. "I was told to meet Valmir at the Lost Man's Reprieve in Helgen, so I left Daggerfall and crossed the border into the Reach and then traveled southeast to meet him there. He told me that he was a scholar of ancient religions and that he was in Skyrim to gather material to finish his book on the Dragon Cult. He wanted to go to Forelhost, which he said was the last bastion of the Cult in Skyrim, in order to conduct an archaeological expedition. And –" he hesitated for a moment "– he wanted me to help retrieve the mask and staff of the Dragon Priest hidden within."

Brynjolf whistled. "Those must be worth a fortune. There's a huge market for looted antiquities, especially from Nordic barrows; I can only imagine the price they'd fetch."

"Who's interrupting now, Bryn?" the Dragonborn remarked wryly before turning to Ronan. "Keep talking."

The Breton nodded quickly, not wanting to annoy her any further. "It took us about a day and a half to get to Forelhost. When we got there, the guards that Valmir had sent ahead were slaughtered... and then you killed Valmir," he finished, glancing uneasily at her. "And correct me if I'm wrong, but I it looks like you got the mask and staff as well."

"Perceptive, I see." Slinging the large, cloth-covered bundle off her back and placing it on one of the beds, Kajsa undid the wrappings with a triumphant smirk to reveal a strange mask carved out of orichalcum and a golden staff shaped like a striking serpent. "Your employer's guards didn't even get _close_ to Rahgot."

"Did you kill them too?" Ronan asked, trying not to sound accusing. "The guards in the tents by the entrance?"

"Yes," she said simply, wrapping up the artifacts again. "However, the draugr, not I, took care of the ones inside. Made it that much easier – relatively speaking."

The Breton frowned. "Why were you even at Forelhost in the first place?"

"The lad raises a good point, lass," Brynjolf said. "I'd like to know why the High Queen of Skyrim is running around ancient Nord tombs in her old Guild leathers like she used to before she got married and had a kid of her own."

The Dragonborn shot him a glare before directing her attention at Ronan. "Listen, I believe your story; I've dealt with enough liars in my life to know when someone's being dishonest. But that doesn't mean that I trust you enough to tell you about –"

"Oh, so you don't trust me either, lass?" the Guildmaster interjected. "And I thought that _you _said that we'd give the lad the benefit of the doubt when we found him!"

"Bryn, the High Rock Guild cannot be trusted anymore!" Kajsa hissed. "Guildmaster Marat has been collaborating with the Thalmor and –"

"Jolaine?" The familiar name slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it.

Both of the Nords glanced over at him in astonishment, but the Dragonborn spoke first. "You know her well?"

The Breton nodded. "Of course I do. She's the one who gave me this job –" He stopped abruptly, remembering Valmir's words: _Guildmaster Mara__t __has long been a friend of mine. I have always trusted her with matters that require considerable discretion such as this__._

And then he remembered something more.

"_Jolaine?"_

_She gave a violent start, nearly knocking over the inkwell onto her papers as she whirled around, but all the fear went out of her when she saw it was he. "Oh, Ronan, it's you! You scared me!" She clasped one hand to her heart and laughed._

_Ronan laughed with her. "Sorry about that, Jo. Are you all right?"_

"_Ah... yes. Yes, I am." She smiled, but it was unusually tense. "Just caught up in some paperwork, my love. You know how it is." Turning around again, Jolaine hastily gathered up the papers strewn over her desk, stuffing them into a leather folder. "Just give me a moment."_

_Peering over her shoulder, he glimpsed the bright flash of Daggerfall court seals on handwritten documents with elaborate script. "Jo, what are those?" he asked, his brow furrowing._

"_Nothing, Ronan." She attempted to hide it inside the folder._

_Ronan plucked one of the sheets out of her grasp, ignoring her protests, and examined it. His eyes widened when he saw the first line:_

Being a Treaty of Peace Between the Territory of High Rock and the Independent Nation of Skyrim

"_What are you doing with an official peace treaty from Daggerfall, Jo?" he demanded. "Did a client ask you to steal it?"_

_Jolaine said nothing, but her eyes flitted back to the documents still lying out in the open. Ronan followed her gaze to a lone letter on the top of the haphazard pile, and his breath caught in his throat out of shock._

_The letterhead bore a winged golden star._

"What is it, lad?" Brynjolf asked, his voice bringing Ronan out of his thoughts.

The Breton nervously chewed on his lip. "I – I _think_ I know what the Dragonborn's talking about. Before I left on this job, I – I discovered that Jo – that _Jolaine_ had stolen official documents. A peace treaty between High Rock and Skyrim. And..." He paused for a moment, unsure of how to say it. "She had a letter. A letter with the Dominion's seal on it."

"Damnation!" Kajsa snarled, her fist coming down on the table. "As if it isn't enough that she and her little splinter cell tried to sabotage negotiations –!"

"_Peace_ negotiations?" The Guildmaster frowned. "Lass, our business is secrets, but I don't think I ever heard of this particular one." He shot a sidelong glance at Ronan. "I'm inclined to agree with the lad on this, lass. I want to know _what's_ going on that's so covert, you won't even tell the Guild about it."

The Dragonborn stared coolly at him for a moment before re-crossing her arms and turning around again, not facing either of them. Ronan and Brynjolf waited for her to speak.

"Skyrim is at war, gentlemen." Her voice was quiet, but full of portent. "Not a war with its own countrymen pitted against each other on a battlefield, as the Civil War was – a war in the shadows." She laughed harshly. "Others are aware of it, of course, but only those waging it know of its full import."

"You're fighting the Dominion, lass," the Guildmaster stated simply. "You and Ulfric."

Kajsa turned around, her dark eyes unfathomable. "We have been for some time, and so has Skyrim. But ever since my husband and I were crowned, it has begun in earnest.

"Some battles – Skyrim gaining a formal separation from the Empire – were more open than others. But what was not as well known were our other diplomatic dealings: an alliance with Hammerfell, the peace treaties with Cyrodiil and High Rock..." A shadow passed over her face. "We took great pains to ensure that the Dominion would not be aware of them, but thanks to _Marat_, we failed in the latter."

Ronan wanted to ask how Jolaine had been involved, but the words stuck in his throat. _No. I don't want to know. _What came out instead was: "Valmir. How – how did you know about him?"

"Ever since he showed up in Skyrim, Valmir's been sticking out: snooping around barrows and Dwarven ruins, asking suspicious questions of court mages... he even went up to the College of Winterhold to try to gain access to the Arcanaeum." The Dragonborn smiled sourly. "The latter was what caught my attention."

"Oh, so Enthir's in on this and I'm not?" Brynjolf asked irritably.

Kajsa shrugged. "He's as much in the dark as you were; I just told him to keep an eye out. Even though I'm not Guildmaster anymore, most of the fences are still loyal to me. They're valuable informants, Bryn, and you can't deny that."

"I suppose," the other Nord admitted grudgingly. "But why not tell any of us, lass? I can understand not informing the junior members, maybe Tonilia and the Flagon staff, but Del... Vex... Karliah... me..." He shook his head. "Why?"

The Dragonborn's face softened a little bit, but her eyes were still dark. "You know what happened the last time the Guild got involved with the Thalmor, Bryn." Her gaze shifted to Ronan, but only for an instant. "I don't want to send any of you into harm's way if I can help it."

Clearing his throat awkwardly, the Breton shifted in his seat. "I – I still have one more question: why did you even bring me here? I mean," he said hastily, as both pairs of eyes turned to him, "if I was with a Thalmor agent, why didn't you just kill me? Were you... _looking _for me?"

"Yes," Kajsa said shortly.

Ronan swallowed. "For how long?"

It was Brynjolf who answered, his face solemn. "A year or so. We had Del check with a couple of informants, write to the other Guilds to see if maybe you were in their ranks... but I guess that Marat concealed _that_ as well."

_Even more questions than before... _"_Why _were you looking for me?"

Both the Guildmaster and the Dragonborn glanced at each other questioningly.

In the silence, someone knocked on the doorframe. Ronan craned his head around to try to see who it was, but whoever had knocked was staying out of sight of the doorway.

Brynjolf sighed. "We're a little busy right now."

"Even for me, Brynjolf?" The voice was soft and even; Ronan had to strain to hear it.

The Guildmaster hesitated for a moment. "No, not at all. You can come in, Karliah."

The new speaker finally came into view: a tall Dunmer in well-worn Guild leathers with shoulder-length brown hair and grave violet eyes. Her gaze went not to either him or Brynjolf, but to Kajsa, and she smiled. "Kajsa. It's good to see you again."

"Karliah." The Dragonborn returned the gesture, hugging her tightly. "How was your trip?"

"Well enough. We'll speak of it later." She studied Kajsa carefully. "I was hoping to pay you another visit when I returned, but your housecarl told me that you were not in Windhelm. I must admit, I didn't –"

"– expect to find me in Riften?" the other finished wryly. "To be honest, neither did I."

Brynjolf cleared his throat. "Karliah... she found him." He inclined his head towards Ronan.

Slowly, the Dunmer turned around and froze in place. She stared at him in utter shock and disbelief, her eyes full of sorrow. Disturbed, yet held in place by her gaze, Ronan stayed seated.

At long last, she turned her head. "By the shadows... he _does _look like his father," she murmured to herself, her voice pained.

The Breton frowned. _Two people in the same night who think that they knew my father... _"I – I think you're mistaken."

Karliah's eyes snapped back to him, filled with anger rather than sadness. "I am _not_ mistaken!" she insisted, her voice rising with emotion. "Nocturnal only knows how long that those features, that voice have haunted me –"

"I never knew my father," Ronan said firmly, trying to keep his voice even. "I'm an orphan. I was raised in Honorhall; I never knew either of my parents."

The Dunmer fell silent, glancing at Brynjolf and Kajsa for confirmation.

"He mentioned it before," the Dragonborn supplied. "I'm fairly sure he's telling the truth."

"Why would I lie about something like that?" Ronan burst out. "I don't know why you're looking for me or who you think I am, but you've got the wrong person!"

Karliah shook her head. "No, Ronan. We do not."

It took a moment for him to fully register what she said. "Wait... how do you know my –"

"Nocturnal told us of you, Ronan," the Dunmer said quietly. "It was She who ordered us to find you."

The Breton swallowed. _Nocturnal... the Daedric Prince of Luck, patron of thieves... looking for _me_? But why? _"Why?" he asked aloud.

"I do not know what our Lady has in store for you," Karliah confessed, "but please: you must come with us."

"You want to take him to the Hall, lass?" Brynjolf asked. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," the Dunmer said firmly. "We need to seek guidance... and we must take Ronan with us." She gave him a sort of half-smile, but it was sad and weary. "I'm not asking you to trust us... just follow us, and I swear to you that all of your questions will be answered."

Ronan hesitated for a moment. "Fine," he said irritably before he could think it over. "I'll hold you to that, though."

_But will the answers be ones I want to hear?_

* * *

**[A/N] Yes... everyone's favorite disembodied-voice-from-a-purple-void will be returning next chapter, so stay tuned!**

**On a side note, did you know that reviews are wonderful birthday presents? *Nudge nudge, wink wink***


	5. In the Dark

******************[A/N] Well, I've discovered that there is indeed a use for a second-period study hall, and that use is writing fanfiction. :) So many thanks to the clueless guidance counselors of my school, because without them giving me a strange schedule, this chapter would not have been written!**

******************Also, many more thanks to everyone who reviewed and wished me a happy birthday. I love you guys... you know that, right?**

******************[D****************************************************************************************ISCLAIMER] I do not own The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or anything related to it; that's Bethesda's deal, not mine (sadly). However, Ronan Sorleigh and Kajsa Red-Blade are my original characters, and they belong to me.**

* * *

_**CHAPTER**__** V**__** –**__** In the Dark**_

"So let me get this straight," Ronan said slowly. "Nocturnal Herself told you to find me, but you have no idea why."

Brynjolf, now clad in a set of sleek, caped armor formed from overlapping scales of black leather, nodded in assent. "That's... _mostly_ accurate, lad. Karliah and I were the only members of the Trinity present at the time though."

The Breton frowned. "'Trinity'?"

"Brynjolf refers to the Nightingale Trinity," Karliah, also dressed in armor similar to the Guildmaster's, explained patiently. "Have you ever heard of it?"

"Oh." Ronan mentally kicked himself for not recognizing the name earlier. "Of course I have, but I thought that the Trinity was a myth."

Despite her grave demeanor, the Dunmer smiled slightly. "That assumption was seeded into the Guild on purpose. Of course, the speculation over the years has somewhat cracked the illusion of secrecy, but the vast majority of thieves don't even know if it exists."

"But it does." The Breton glanced around at his surroundings: a moss-covered hall lined with faded banners on the walls and burning braziers. _I wouldn't be standing in their headquarters if it wasn't real..__._he thought wryly.

"So if you and the Guildmaster are both Nightingales, and the Nightingales form a trinity," he asked tentatively, "who's the third Nightingale?"

"I am." He nearly jumped at the sound of Kajsa's voice coming from beside him; even though she was still wearing her Guild leathers and bulky cloak, she moved as silently as a ghost. "Karliah is the Agent of Stealth, and Brynjolf is the Agent of Subterfuge. I am both the Agent of Strife and the Champion of Nocturnal."

"How does a thief and a Daedric Champion become High Queen of Skyrim?" The question was out of Ronan's mouth before he could stop it.

A wry, yet sour smile touched her lips. "It's a long story, but the short version is this: I'm the Dragonborn, I fought for the Stormcloaks, and I married the man who led them. Does that answer your question?" The last sentence held a touch of acid.

"Ah. Alright then," the Breton managed, not really sure how to respond to her bluntness.

Kajsa turned to Karliah. "How do you propose doing this?"

"We'll all go in," the Dunmer said. "Ronan will stand with you. Then I will summon Nocturnal. And..." Her voice faltered for a moment, her eyes lingering on Ronan. "We'll see what happens."

Brynjolf nodded in assent. "Fine by me."

"Wait a moment," Ronan found himself saying, feeling all eyes turning to him. "I still have one more question."

"What is it?" Karliah asked tentatively.

The Breton swallowed. "You – you all kept mentioning my parents, my father in particular. I never even knew them; what do they have to do with any of this?"

Brynjolf answered in the Dunmer's stead. "When Nocturnal told us to find you, lad, she told us that you were the son of – of someone we knew before," he finished uneasily, glancing at both Karliah and Kajsa. "Kajsa's predecessor as Guildmaster and Agent of Strife."

Ronan blinked in surprise. _One of my parents was part of the Skyrim Thieves Guild..._ and _the Nightingales? _"'Predecessor'?"

"He's dead now," Kajsa said abruptly, striding ahead of the others. "Come on. We haven't got all night."

Pulling her hood and mask up to conceal her face, Karliah followed the Dragonborn up the stairs and into the narrow hallway ahead; after a moment, Brynjolf and Ronan fell in step behind the two women. Pulling a chain hanging from the ceiling, Kajsa paused and waited for a row of iron spikes to vanish into some holes in the floor before continuing on. Karliah trailed after her, and after following the Dunmer's lead by adjusting his own hood and mask, the Guildmaster then proceeded after her.

Ronan stepped out of the passage last, glancing around at the huge chamber that the four of them had entered into. There was a circular stone dais in the center, the seal on the floor bearing the insignia of a stylized bird whose wings cupped a full moon. Branching off of the dais were three arcing walkways leading to miniature versions of the parent structure. Following Kajsa out to what appeared to be the westernmost circle, the Breton inched next to her and waited.

The figure in Nightingale armor on the circle next to them (judging by the slight frame, it was Karliah) knelt on one knee, lifting both of her hands in supplication and raising her voice. "I call upon You, Lady Nocturnal: Queen of Murk and Empress of Shadow. Hear my voice and answer my summons!"

Her words echoed off the moss-coated walls for a moment, and then the chamber fell completely silent. A split-second later, the air around the three of them grew dryer and thinner as a round, roiling void of deepest purple, ringed with shadowy smoke, crackled into sudden existence, hovering over the largest circle.

Next to him, Kajsa knelt down and bowed her head as Karliah and Brynjolf did the same. Unsure of what to do, Ronan hastily followed their lead.

A harsh and brassy, yet distinctly feminine voice emanated from the void. "Ah, Karliah. Back again, I see – with good news this time, I trust?" There was a slightly mocking tone to her words.

"Yes, my Lady: _very_ good news." The Dunmer rose to her feet as the others did so. "Ronan Sorleigh has been found."

"But not by you or your fellow Agent of Subterfuge," Nocturnal pointed out crossly. "Once again, my Champion did not disappoint me in this." The void seemed to turn towards the westernmost circle, and Ronan had the uncomfortable feeling that it was looking right at him. "But no matter. You have proven yourself useful nonetheless, Karliah."

"Thank you, my Lady," Karliah said gratefully.

_Her thanks are but trifling._ Ronan gave a start as the Daedric Prince's voice echoed within his head. _You and I have more important things to talk about, Ronan Sorleigh._

"Lad?" he heard Brynjolf say, but it was as if from a great distance: faded and indistinct. "What's going on with you?"

_Pay no heed to them__,_ Nocturnal commanded testily. _What I have to say to you is for your ears, not for theirs._

"What is it, then?" the Breton asked aloud.

Almost instantly, he gritted his teeth as a searing, throbbing pain wracked his skull. _Answer me with your mind, not your mouth,_ the Daedric Prince snarled. _This is between you and I; do you not understand that?_

_Not really,_ he thought irritably. _How in the bloody Oblivion does one talk with their mind?_

A dry laugh rang out. _It's easier than you might think, Ronan... so to speak._

Ronan reddened. _I__ – __I apologize, my Lady,_ he thought quickly. _What did You want to speak to me about?_

_First you. What do_ you _wish to speak to_ me _about?_ She laughed a rich, throaty laugh at his confusion. _I know that your mind is troubled. I know that you have questions that my Nightingales will not answer. Ask them._

The Breton mentally scrabbled for a question. _Why did You ask them to find me__? _he thought desperately.

_A curious question,_ Nocturnal purred. _Karliah and Brynjolf wanted information. I made a bargain with them: three questions for them__ and their companion...__ and you for me._

_No, I__ – __I meant to ask what you wanted with me,_ Ronan rephrased, trying not to become frustrated._ Do they know?_

_They _think _they know._ The Daedric Prince sounded unbearably smug. _My Trinity is under the impression that you will become one of my Nightingales. It may yet be true, but I am considering... _other _alternatives._

The Breton didn't quite know how to respond to that vaguely threatening statement.

_Oh, d__o no__t fret; I do not mean to have you killed,_ Nocturnal assured exasperatedly. _You are far too special and unique to be put down like a dog._

_What do You mean?_ Ronan asked uneasily.

_You are quite talented, Ronan. I'd like to think that I had a hand in that; after all, I have been watching you for quite a while._ There was a hint of amusement in her words, but it faded quickly. _I like to keep an eye on the children of my Nightingales, as they often turn out to be excellent thieves. Karliah has __already __been mine for a long time, and I have no __particular __interest in my Champion's son, but _you – _the son of my traitor Nightingale, one of the greatest thieves to walk Tamriel__ – __I have _great _interest in you._

The Breton furrowed his brow. _"__Traitor Nightingale"?_

_Ah, but I forget. You never knew your dear father._ The Daedric Prince's voice was as sharp as a blade. _The name of your father was Mercer Frey. You have never heard of him, hmm? Never heard his name whispered behind your back?_

Ronan's confusion deepened. _No. I haven't._

_N__o surprise there__, I suppose__. The High Rock and Skyrim Guilds don't quite see eye-to-eye on most matters, so perhaps it is for the better that you don't know what kind of man your father was and the reputation that he had._ Nocturnal seemed to muse for a moment. _Ask my Nightingales about him. They will not be the most unbiased source, of course, but it'll give you_ something_, will it not?_

_Is that Your command?_ the Breton asked carefully.

_If I tell you to do something, Ronan, you do it,_ the Daedric Prince snapped. _No excuses, no hesitation. Like my Nightingales, I expect you to be unswervingly loyal to me. Do you understand that?_

Ronan sighed. He couldn't exactly say that he liked where this conversation was going, but judging from what he knew of the Daedra, they were not to be defied lightly. _I understand._

_Good. I have some tasks for you,_ Nocturnal said succinctly. _The first you already know of. The second is this: when my Champion leaves Riften, you must accompany her. Your path will lead you back here soon enough, but you must go with her for now._

_Why?_ he thought, then flinched involuntarily, as if to prepare for another upbraiding.

Surprisingly, the Daedric Prince did not chide him for his mistake. _A great darkness is coming, Ronan: one even greater than the Evergloam itself, one that will consume the world if it is not stopped. _Her voice held none of its harshness from before; Ronan could almost swear that he heard a trace of dread in her words. _The Dragonborn is doing her part to stay it, but it is _your _destiny that lies in this darkness... not hers._

The Breton swallowed at the ominous prophecy. _What is the darkness that You speak of?_

_Too many questions, Ronan,_ she warned.

Ronan fell silent for a moment. Then: _My Lady, what if Kajsa doesn't believe that I'm supposed to go with her? She isn't exactly... _trusting.

Nocturnal laughed. _My Champion trusts few, least of all you. However, if she does not believe you..._She mused over something._T__ell her that __the daggers in men's smiles often end up in their hearts._

He was going to ask what that meant, but his head suddenly felt very light and weightless, as if everything within his skull had been blown out by a gust of wind. As a knot of throbbing pain pounded behind his eyes, Ronan's knees buckled and his world went black.

* * *

Ronan cracked one eye open. Despite the dim light, he squeezed his lids shut again; even this relative darkness seemed too bright.

"Lad? Are you all right?" Brynjolf's brogue, tinged with caution, sounded far too loud and close.

With a groan, the Breton tried to sit up, still keeping his eyes shut and blindly pushing himself up from the cold stone. Strong hands grabbed his shoulders and hauled him into a seated position, causing his fingers to scrape along the rough floor.

"What happened?" he heard Karliah ask; Ronan was surprised to hear her soft, lilting voice so clearly.

"Damned if I know." Kajsa's voice: low and slightly hoarse, as usual, but it seemed to have an undercurrent of some ancient power underneath it. "He collapsed, Nocturnal vanished, and then I dragged him down here so he wouldn't fall off and break his neck."

Cautiously, the Breton opened his eyes, wincing as the dim light flooded into his eyes; the muted blue-greys of the cavern seemed much richer, darker than they had before. He was sprawled on the center dais, with a now-unhooded Brynjolf crouched beside him. Karliah, also unhooded, and Kajsa stood nearby.

"Lad?" Brynjolf repeated, letting go of his shoulders. "Are you all right?"

"I – I don't know. I don't think so," he managed.

_You're perfectly fine, Ronan. It'll just take you a little time to adjust._

The Breton's mouth went dry at the harsh, all-too-familiar voice. _Nocturnal?_

_What other Daedric Prince would it be, Ronan?_ Despite her frosty tone, she sounded slightly amused.

_What did You do to me?_ he demanded desperately.

_I've merely placed a fragment of myself within you, inside your mind. You needn't worry; it's not particularly harmful._

"'Not particularly harmful'?!" Ronan shouted. "You're inside my head! You can hear my thoughts; you can probably control me, too!"

Kajsa's eyes grew dark. Karliah gasped, a hand flying to her mouth, and Brynjolf jerked back from him. Ronan realized then that he had shouted aloud.

Nocturnal only laughed at his anger. _There's no need to be so dramatic. It's only a small fragment: just large enough to establish a link between you and I. I can communicate with my future Champion when I choose, and in return, you receive some__..._added benefits._ I think you'll quite enjoy them, _she purred.

The Breton didn't even hear the last part of that sentence. _What? I__ – I__'m going to be__ – __Your _Champion? _But I thought that – _He faltered, expecting to be reprimanded.

There was no answer.

"Lad!" Brynjolf ordered. "What's going on?"

Ronan sucked in a deep breath, realizing that he must appear insane to them. "I – I think Nocturnal's in my head," he said slowly, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

"She – our Lady attached Herself to_ you_?" Karliah's tone was one of disbelief, but her eyes betrayed something akin to disdain.

"You sound surprised," the Breton managed.

"A bit," she confessed, her voice neutral again. "Nocturnal grants us Her powers and speaks to all of us when She deems fit, but to attach herself to someone, especially an Uninitiated..." The Dunmer trailed off. "It is very rare."

"What does this mean, then?" Kajsa asked shortly.

"I don't know, Kajsa," Karliah admitted with a sigh.

Ronan swallowed. "She – Nocturnal, I mean – She said that – that She established the link to –" He steadied his breathing, hoping desperately not to stumble over his words this time. "She said that She established the link to communicate with Her future Champion." He glanced involuntarily towards Kajsa; the other two Nightingales followed his gaze.

The Dragonborn pursed her lips in thought. "So Nocturnal wishes to be rid of me... preferably before I come to Her and demand to be released, as I have done to so many of her brothers." She laughed harshly. "Does She want me dead?"

"I – I don't think so. Although..." A chill ran down the Breton's spine. "She told me that I was to go with you when you left Riften."

"To kill me, no doubt," Kajsa finished accusingly, "and take my place as Champion."

"I don't even _want_ to be Nocturnal's Champion!" Ronan protested. "I never wanted to get mixed up in this – _any _of it!"

She smiled without humor. "Try discovering that you're the Last Dragonborn."

"High Queen," he tried again. "I'm not going to kill you, and I don't think Nocturnal means to have you killed either. She said that it was my destiny to help you."

"The Daedra say a lot of things, and most of the time, it's all lies and subterfuge," the Dragonborn said in steely tones. "And I've pissed off enough of them to know that they're quite vindictive, especially when you break promises with them."

The Breton chewed his lip for a moment, wracking his brain for what to say next. "Nocturnal said that you wouldn't believe me. She told me to tell you that... that the daggers in men's smiles often end up in their hearts."

There was complete silence after his words. Brynjolf and Karliah both looked troubled. Kajsa turned away, her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes pained. Ronan waited anxiously, unsure of the significance of the phrase.

Finally, the Dragonborn spoke quietly. "What else did Nocturnal say to you?"

_That my father was one of you once: a Nightingale, a thief with the Skyrim Guild. _He considered what to say for a moment. _But what will they say to me in return?_

"Tell me about Mercer Frey," he managed. "Tell me about my – my father."

* * *

**[A/N] Next chapter: unpleasant revelations! In the meantime, review!**


	6. Hard Answers

******************[A/N] Ugh... why is it so warm here? We're nearly halfway through September; New England should _not_ be embroiled in 95-degree heat waves!**

******************Anyhoodle, I realized that I would have no time this weekend - and this chapter was finished before then - so I decided to post it today for your reading enjoyment! (Besides, I like it when the fics I'm reading update during the week, so do unto others, etc.)**

******************[D****************************************************************************************ISCLAIMER] I do not own The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or anything related to it; that's Bethesda's deal, not mine (sadly). However, Ronan Sorleigh and Kajsa Red-Blade are my original characters, and they belong to me.**

* * *

_**CHAPTER**__** VI**__** –**__** Hard Answers**_

For once, the usually-loquacious Brynjolf was struck dumb. "Mercer Frey?" he finally managed. "Wherever did you hear _that_ name, lad?"

"From Nocturnal, most likely," Kajsa said dryly. "After all, She _is_ inside his head."

Ronan nodded to confirm. "She told me to ask you about – about him. Mercer. My – my father." To call a man that he never knew "father" was much stranger than he could have ever imagined it to be. _After so many years of not knowing anything about him..._

"Has Nocturnal told you anything about him already?" Karliah's voice was quiet and unexpectedly pained.

"Only his name," he answered tentatively. "But... She _did_ call him Her 'traitor Nightingale'... why is that?"

The Dunmer's face was unexpectedly grim. "Because he broke his oath to Nocturnal and betrayed both the Guild and the Nightingales. He –" Her voice cracked and she could not continue.

"Lass, you don't have to speak of this," Brynjolf cut in. "_Either_ of you," he added, glancing at a hard-eyed Kajsa.

The Dragonborn shrugged tightly. "Fine. You're good at explanations anyway, Bryn. Explain away." With that said, she turned on one heel and stalked away towards the corridor back into Nightingale Hall; after a moment of hesitation and a last look at Ronan, Karliah followed her.

Heaving a sigh, the Guildmaster settled himself into a seated position on the cold stone floor. "Don't mind them, lad. Everyone gets a little touchy when Mercer's mentioned, and those two get more riled up than most."

"And you don't?" Ronan asked.

Brynjolf smiled humorlessly. "I was Mercer's Second before I became Guildmaster, lad. I'd be lying if I told you that his actions didn't affect me, too."

"You knew my father, then?" The Breton brought his knees up, leaning forward on them.

"As much as was possible, lad. I knew him from when I was young, but even today, I still don't know everything about him." The Guildmaster scrutinized the younger man. "You _do _look a lot like him, you know. Your hair's got a touch more of ginger than Mercer ever had, but other than that..." He trailed off.

_I look just like him,_ Ronan finished to himself a tad tiredly. "Do – do you know who my mother was?"

Brynjolf shook his head. "Mercer wasn't married, and I don't think he was or planned to. He didn't strike me as a particularly romantic man."

The Breton swallowed. _So my mother could have been anyone..__._ "Do you think my father even knew about me?" he tried again.

"I don't know, lad," the Guildmaster said simply.

"So I'm just a bastard, then," Ronan concluded bitterly. _Abandoned. Dumped at Honorhall because neither __one __wanted me._

"Probably," Brynjolf admitted. "But being a bastard isn't a bad thing, lad. I'm one myself, you know."

The Breton frowned at him in surprise.

"My mother was the Jarl of Winterhold's mistress for a time," the other explained. "She died of fever when I was seven, and Korir had me sent to Honorhall to try and dispel the rumors about my parentage." The Guildmaster snorted in disdain.

"So you grew up in Honorhall, too," Ronan said with a wry smile, "dreaming of getting out and becoming _somebody_ like all the other children there."

Brynjolf chuckled. "Lad, I never even _got _to Honorhall. I ran away and lived on the streets of Riften for a day or two before I tried to pick someone's pocket to get some coin. The man caught me – but fortunately for me, that man happened to be Gallus Desidenius, the Guildmaster before Mercer." He smiled fondly at the memory. "Gallus took me under his wing and taught me all he knew about thieving. He was a good man."

"What happened to him?" The words were out of the Breton's mouth before he could stop them.

A shadow fell over the Guildmaster's face. "He was murdered," he finally said. "I think you can guess by whom."

Ronan tensed. _By__ – __by my father__ – __by Mercer?_ "Why did Mercer kill Gallus?" he asked, his voice wavering.

Brynjolf sighed heavily, pushing his hair back from his face. "Mercer desecrated the Twilight Sepulchure and stole the Skeleton Key of Nocturnal – which, as a Nightingale, he was sworn to protect. And then he used it for his own personal gain... which included him stealing from the Guild." His normally bright eyes were dark and troubled. "Gallus discovered this, and Mercer murdered him to keep him silent. He framed Karliah for the murder, sending her on the run... and then Mercer assumed the position of Guildmaster and no one was the wiser for twenty-five years."

The Breton's breath caught in his throat. "That's – that's despicable," he choked out. "What would – _why_ would –?"

"I don't know, lad," the Guildmaster said grimly. "And now, we never will."

Unbidden, Karliah's haunted face resurfaced in Ronan's mind, protesting that she could never forget his face; the recollection chilled him to the bone. _Every time she looks at me... she sees the man who destroyed her life._ Despite himself, he felt a sort of shame at the realization.

"What happened then?" His voice was no more than a hoarse, fearful whisper. "Why is Mercer dead?"

"Because the truth came out," Brynjolf said simply. "Karliah returned to Skyrim to sabotage the Guild and bring Mercer's treachery to light. Kajsa discovered the truth of what _really_ happened twenty-five years ago... and Mercer tried to silence her as well." His mouth tightened for an instant. "She and Karliah gave the Guild proof of Mercer's deeds, but by then, it was almost too late. The vault was completely empty and Mercer was long gone."

"'Almost'?" the Breton questioned.

"Mercer fled to a Dwemer ruin called Irkngthand in order to carry out one last heist that would set him up for life: stealing a pair of massive gemstones called the Eyes of the Falmer. Karliah inducted Kajsa and I into the Nightingales, and the three of us followed him there in order to stop him."

"And you did." Ronan fell silent for a moment. Then: "Who killed him? Was it Karliah?"

The Guildmaster shook his head. "Karliah and I were trapped. Kajsa dealt the killing blow."

Looking down at his hands, the Breton said nothing for a while, unsure of what to do or say. _I found my father... but he was not at all who I expected._

_No one ever is, Ronan._ He gave a start as Nocturnal's voice whispered in his mind again. _Everyone's always hiding _something,_ and your father hid more than most._

_What else_ could _he hide?_ he thought miserably.

There was no answer. Ronan sighed, a harsh, angry sound; he hadn't necessarily been expecting an answer, anyway.

Brynjolf was scrutinizing him, concerned. "Do you want some time to yourself, lad?"

"No," the Breton said, slightly more brusquely than intended. "Let's just – let's just leave." He clambered to his feet and started towards the entryway, then stopped, remembering something.

Behind him, the Guildmaster's footsteps ceased. "What is it, lad?"

Ronan turned around. "What does 'the daggers in men's smiles often end up in their hearts' mean?" he asked slowly. "The way you all reacted to that... it was as though you'd heard it before."

"It's a part of a code, lad. Both a distress call and a rallying cry... inspired by Mercer's betrayal." Brynjolf's face was grave. "The last time it was used... well, _that_ was the last time we found ourselves calling upon Nocturnal."

* * *

"No," Kajsa said immediately. "The answer is no."

"As much as I hate to admit it, it's the only choice we have." By now, Karliah had regained control of her emotions and was now calm and logical once more. "We can't let him stay with the Guild in the Cistern. We can't just let him go on his way; we've come too far and shown him too much for that to be a viable option now. He has to go with you."

"And don't you care about whether I live or die?" the Dragonborn asked sarcastically.

"You are a more than capable fighter, and I don't believe that Nocturnal would pit us against each other," the Dunmer said firmly. "If Our Lady has decided to place Her faith in him, we should strive to do the same... no matter how difficult it may be." Her eyes fell from Kajsa's face.

"You can't separate him from Mercer in your mind, same as I."

Karliah nodded slowly. "Ronan is... so_ different _from his father: not arrogant, not cruel, not hateful. But when I look at him –" her voice cracked with emotion "– I see Mercer as he was twenty-six years ago."

The Dragonborn was quiet for a moment. Then: "What will you and Brynjolf do while I'm gone?"

"We might as well let Delvin and Vex know about Ronan; they already suspect something, anyway." The Dunmer smiled briefly, but sadly. "Then if Ronan ends up staying longer... we should probably inform the other thieves as well. They may not like it, but..." She trailed off.

"Karliah, you're not actually considering letting him become part of the Guild, are you?" Kajsa asked in disbelief.

"We don't know what could happen at this point, Kajsa. His future is still... _uncertain_ at best. But what I do know is that all three of us – all three of the Nightingales – are based in or around Riften. If he truly _is_ to become the Champion of Nocturnal, then he may very well wish to seek out our guidance and counsel on matters related to Her."

"And what if he just wants to leave?" the Dragonborn challenged.

Karliah was already shaking her head. "Knowledge is like a drug, Kajsa. Once you get a taste of it, you always are left wanting more... until you imbibe too much for you to handle." She smiled again, just as ruefully as before. "Ronan's not going to leave. He's going to want to find out more: about the Nightingales, about Nocturnal... and _especially_ about his father."

Kajsa said nothing, her lips tightening in remembered pain.

"He'll ask at some point, you know," the Dunmer said. "About why –"

"And I won't tell him," the Dragonborn snarled. "_That_ is my own business, not his."

Karliah fell silent. "All right," she conceded softly. "But he'll want to know one day exactly _why_ you hate Mercer so much."

"Because he tried to kill you." Ronan emerged from the corridor to the summoning chamber, looking back and forth between the two other Nightingales. "Right?" he ventured cautiously.

_Sure__... __let's go with that._ "I take you filled him in on all the sordid details, Bryn?" Kajsa asked pointedly, turning from him to Brynjolf.

"Aye, lass," the Guildmaster answered. "He knows."

The Dragonborn focused on Ronan again, noticing that the Breton looked considerably shaken: pale face, anguished eyes, nails cutting into the palms of his hands. He kept glancing at Karliah as if he wanted to say something, but he stayed mute.

Kajsa addressed him, breaking the silence and dispelling her thoughts for the time. "You can stay at the Hall tonight, but meet me by the Riften stables early tomorrow morning." She gritted her teeth for an instant to steel herself._ Dear Gods and Daedra, _why _am I doing this?_ "I'm riding back to Windhelm then, and you're coming with me."

Ronan nodded without saying a word, resigning himself to his fate without protest.

* * *

**[A/N] Next chapter: a layover in Windhelm, featuring some new and old faces! Until then, leave a review (or two)!**


	7. Cold As Stone

******************[A/N] Sorry for the slight delay on this... I was forced to use my study hall for completing homework and filling out applications instead of writing fanfiction, so I was a little behind this week. That being said, we'll be seeing some new faces and some very familiar ones this chapter, so I hope that you like it. :)**

******************[D****************************************************************************************ISCLAIMER] I do not own The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or anything related to it; that's Bethesda's deal, not mine (sadly). However, Ronan Sorleigh, Kajsa Red-Blade, Vibekke Blood-Born, Torgnyr Stormcloak, Berezhi, and Dar'Esti are my original characters, and they belong to me.**

* * *

_**CHAPTER**__** VII**__** –**__** Cold As Stone**_

Despite her troubled mind, Kajsa felt overwhelmingly relieved upon setting foot inside Windhelm again. What once seemed harsh and unwelcoming – the towering buildings battered by wind and snow, the uneven streets covered with ice, the ancient walls carved with primeval Nordic designs looming behind her – now seemed more like a sanctuary of sorts: allowing some in and deterring others.

_Those who want to harm me or my family... or Skyrim._ A stray snowflake brushed over one of the scars on her cheek and she flinched involuntarily. _The Dominion has stayed away from Windhelm thus far, but I fear they may have grown too bold..._

Ronan spoke from beside her, quiet and subdued. "So this is Windhelm? The capitol of Skyrim?"

The Dragonborn glanced over at him; it was the first she'd heard him speak since they'd left Riften that morning. "Yes."

His brow furrowed. "I thought that the capitol was Solitude."

"The Civil War changed some things," she said wryly. "The location of Skyrim's capitol was one of them."

The Breton nodded without a word.

Kajsa sighed. "Come on. The Palace of the Kings isn't far." She started walking, wrapping her fur cloak a little tighter around herself. "You can take off your hood if you want, but it might be a little cold for that."

Ronan cracked a small smile, but sobered quickly as he began to follow her.

With every step she took, the Dragonborn found herself sinking back into her thoughts again, but she pushed aside all thought of the Thalmor and dragon priests to focus on Ronan. _Right now, _he _is the immediate concern._

The journey up North had been a silent one. He hadn't talked, and she hadn't encouraged him to. The Breton had simply rode, a lost, pained expression on his face; clearly, he'd still been thinking about Mercer and Nocturnal and everything else that had transpired yesterday.

Surprisingly, she found herself pitying him. She knew all too well what it was like to have your life transformed in a single night.

"Is this the Palace of the Kings?" Ronan asked suddenly.

Jerked out of her melancholy thoughts again, Kajsa looked up at the massive structure before her: the oldest in all of Windhelm and still standing even hundreds of years later. The evening wind had lessened considerably, mostly due to them standing in the walled-off courtyard, but snow still floated through the air above.

"Yes." She started walking towards one of the tall, studded bronze doors ahead. "We should get inside." _I have a feeling that there will be more than a few people waiting for me... wouldn't want to disappoint them._

* * *

Pulling off his hood at last, Ronan gazed around him at the glory of the main hall of the Palace of the Kings. With the great slabs of stone that formed the walls and the lofty ceiling, the grey-blue banners embroidered with snarling bear heads on the walls and carpets of the same hue covering the cold floor, and the towering throne against the back wall that lorded over the whole hall, he somehow had no trouble believing that this ancient, yet stately palace was now the seat of government in Skyrim. It seemed to echo the proud, hardy spirit of the Nords themselves.

"Not as grand as what you've seen in Daggerfall, I'm sure," Kajsa murmured, but her tone was more amused than accusing.

"Nord and Breton architecture are in different categories entirely," he said carefully. "They – they can't really be compared. The styles are... very far from each other."

The Dragonborn laughed quietly, pushing her own hood back from her face as well. "Diplomat."

He smiled weakly. "I – I try."

"My queen!"

The Breton turned his head at the unfamiliar voice. A tall, muscular Nord woman in steel plate armor had risen from the long wooden table laden with food and drink in the center of the hall, and she began striding towards them. As she drew closer, he could see that she had close-cropped black hair and piercing blue eyes above a scarlet knot of war paint on one cheek and a mess of scars on the other. A dangerously sharp-looking battleaxe was sheathed on her back.

Grinning broadly, the woman stopped before them and inclined her head slightly. "Nice to see you in one piece, my queen." Her accent was thick and decidedly provincial.

"Your lack of faith is disturbing, Vibekke," Kajsa replied darkly, but she was smiling as she said it. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, you know."

"Oh, that's right," the other commented with a touch of sarcasm. "Forgive me, my queen. I keep forgetting that you're not like other pansy-ass nobles that cling to their housecarls like a child's blanket."

Laughing, the Dragonborn turned to Ronan. "Ronan, this is Vibekke, my housecarl. Vibekke, this is Ronan Sorleigh."

Vibekke scrutinized him for a moment; the Breton could not help but feel slightly intimidated, seeing as that she was a good head taller than either he or Kajsa. "He one of yours, my queen?" she finally asked, her voice lowered.

Kajsa's lips curled in what might have been disgust. "I wouldn't say that. It's a bit of a long story." She changed the subject deftly. "Where is Ulfric?"

"In the war room, bickering with Galmar. He'll be glad to see that you're back." The housecarl lowered her voice even further. "The king wasn't exactly pleased at your leaving so suddenly. He gave me a lot of shit for letting you go off on your own."

The Dragonborn heaved an irritated sigh. "I'll speak to him." She clapped Vibekke on the shoulder as she walked past. "Thank you."

"Only for you, my queen," the other responded dryly.

Ronan followed Kajsa along the length of the hall to a small doorway that lay to one side of the throne, then into a narrow hallway that emerged into a plain, square room with wooden floors. Banners hung on the walls, and aside from a heavy-looking table that dominated the space, there was no other furniture in the room (though the Breton noted that some parts of the floor looked lighter than others and thought that maybe there had once been a chair or crates there). Maps and papers were strewn over the tabletop, some in orderly piles and others far less so. Two older men were leaning over the table and examining the centermost map with equally frustrated glares, but both looked up at their arrival.

One of them, a gruff-looking, bearded man clad in leather armor adorned with bear fur and claws – and also sporting one of the beast's heads as a helm – was the first to speak. "There you are, Dragonborn. We were wondering when you'd show up for our little meeting. Did you ever get the notice?" His voice was a raspy growl – _not unlike a bear itself,_ thought Ronan, more than a little disconcerted at the notion.

"Very funny, Galmar," Kajsa said, a touch of acid in her tone. "I was busy, in case you couldn't tell already." She unslung the wrapped bundle containing Rahgot's staff and mask from off her back and laid it on the table.

The other man straightened up. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a close-trimmed beard and long hair the color of goldenrod and a piercing gaze, and he wore a grey embroidered tunic underneath a fur-trimmed robe. Despite his lack of a crown, Ronan could tell from his regal bearing and aura of power that this man was the High King of Skyrim.

"Where have you been, Kajsa?" Ulfric Stormcloak's voice was deep and rumbling, but not without an edge of steel. "Seeing as that you did not see fit to tell us where you were going, I feel that we should know now."

"I think you mean 'me' and 'I' in place of 'us' and 'we,' Ulfric," the Dragonborn correctly tartly, crossing her arms. "And if you _must_ know, I was in the mountains on the southern edge of the Rift."

The king's eyes shifted towards the wrapped bundle and then back at her. "And what, pray tell, is in those mountains that was so important?"

"A very unpleasant Nordic barrow called Forelhost that the Thalmor held interest in." She smirked upon seeing the stunned looks on their faces. "Now you see that I had a perfectly valid reason for leaving without explanation."

"We can debate that later," Ulfric said ominously. "What did you recover?"

Kajsa indicated the bundle. "The mask and staff of the dragon priest within – not to mention," she added with a glance at Ronan, "I picked up him along the way."

The Breton swallowed as two pairs of suspicious eyes turned to him. "My name is Ronan Sorleigh," he said, trying to suppress the waver in his voice as he gave a small bow. "It is an honor to meet you, Your Majesty."

Recognition flickered in the king's eyes, but it vanished quickly. "I take it you're part of the Guild, then," he said, gesturing to Ronan's leathers.

The other frowned in surprise. "How do you –?"

Ulfric chuckled, but not wholly unkindly. "I married a thief. I should think that I know Guild armor when I see it."

Ronan gaped for an instant, but quickly closed his mouth. _Even here, I'm__ still__ out of the loop, I suppose. _"You guess correctly," he said uneasily, "but I'm not with the Skyrim Guild. I'm from High Rock – the Daggerfall chapter, to be more precise." Too late, he realized what he'd just said. "But I had nothing to do with the sabotage of the peace treaty, I swear," he added hastily.

The king frowned at his wife. "How much does he know?"

"Just the basics. No details. It was somewhat necessary," she said sourly.

Ulfric sighed. "_Hi lost jah gelaarvon wah dreh,_ Kajsa." Ronan didn't recognize the language, but there was no mistaking the warning, exasperated tone of his words.

"_Spein, ahmul, spein,_" the Dragonborn assured in the same guttural tongue before switching back. "I'll have Jorleif show Ronan to a room. He'll be staying here tonight before we move on to Winterhold in the morning."

The king raised an eyebrow at the word "we," but he nodded. Satisfied at his response, Kajsa turned towards a door set in the adjacent wall, opened it, and vanished into the stairwell behind it, closing the door behind her.

Shaking his head, Ulfric turned to address the man that Kajsa had called Galmar. "We can continue our conversation in the morning. Go get some sleep; Talos knows you need it."

Galmar snorted. "I'd tell you the same thing, but seeing as your wife just returned –"

"I am in no joking mood, Galmar," the king said warningly. "_Go_."

Abruptly shutting his mouth, the other left the room, brushing past Ronan none too gently as he departed. The Breton remained silent, ill at ease in the still of this unfamiliar place.

Then: "So you're Ronan Sorleigh." Ulfric's fingers continued to drum on the edge of the table. "I trust you're not planning any..._ trouble_."

Ronan shook his head hastily. "Your wife spared my life. It would be a poor way to repay her for her mercy."

The king laughed shortly. "'Mercy' and 'Kajsa' are rarely uttered in the same breath." He reached for a goblet on the edge of the table and took a sip of its contents. "How much has my wife told you about our endeavors against the Thalmor?"

"A bit," the Breton said hesitantly. "I'm still unclear on much."

Ulfric's eyes bored into him. "Start from the beginning, then. How did you come to be in Skyrim?"

* * *

The baby's tiny eyes were shut tight, and his chubby fingers were curled around the straps on the black Guild leathers, anchoring himself to his mother. His mouth formed a stubborn little frown as he slept; Kajsa suppressed a smile at the expression that was so reminiscent of Ulfric.

"The little prince missed his mother," Berezhi said softly in her low, purring voice. "This one thinks that it will be hard to tear him away."

"Judging by the death grip he has on me, it's likely." The Dragonborn wrapped her arms a little more securely around her son, stroking the downy blonde hair beginning to grow on his head. "Did he behave while I was gone?"

"He cried the first day, and Khajiit was barely able to calm him down. He was a little better after that, but not by much."

Kajsa sighed sadly. Despite her many duties as High Queen, she always made time for Torgnyr, but it was still hard for her to leave him when her errands took her outside Windhelm. She trusted Berezhi to look after and care for him, but she could not help worrying about him all the same. _If something should happen to him, my only child – if the Thalmor – _

The nursemaid's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Have you heard from this one's sister?" Her large yellow-green eyes were filled with worry.

"I haven't received word from Dar'Esti since her crossing the border into Elsweyr. She's probably infiltrated the palace at Torval by now; it would be too dangerous for her to send word."

Berezhi nodded, but her tail still swished behind her agitatedly. "This one prays you are right. Dar'Esti is a good spy, of _that_ this one has no doubt, but she is not cautious enough at times."

"She'll be fine, Berezhi." The Dragonborn carefully detached Torgnyr from her armor; he barely stirred when she placed him in the Khajiit's waiting arms. "Thank you again for looking after my son."

The nursemaid smiled proudly. "It is this one's honor to serve the High Queen." Carefully cradling the little prince, she made her way to the ajar door of Ulfric's chambers. "Sleep well."

As soon as the door closed behind Berezhi, Kajsa shifted in her seat on the double bed and kicked off her boots, tossing them into a corner of the room followed by her yanked-off gauntlets. Undoing the buckles at the front of her cuirass, she peeled the leather away from her waist and peered at the skin. Her latest wound, a gash she'd received from a persistent Draugr Death Overlord in Forelhost, was healing nicely, thanks to her use of Restoration magic, but it still wasn't pleasant to look at.

_It'll scar, but at this point, that's the least of my concerns. _Standing up and walking to the corner where she'd thrown her boots and gauntlets, the Dragonborn crouched down and picked them up. Opening the wardrobe they'd fallen near, she placed them inside and then shrugged off her cuirass and hung it up as well.

From behind her, a pair of strong arms wrapped around her bare waist, and she let out a gasp of surprise at the sudden contact as she was pulled backwards against the man's chest.

"Did I really manage to catch you off-guard?" Ulfric murmured, his voice warm and deep.

Kajsa let out a relieved breath, the tension going out of her. "No."

He chuckled. "You lie." His lips brushed against her jaw, at the base of her ear. "I know when I've startled you."

The Dragonborn smiled. "And I know that when you use that voice, it's because you want something." She turned around, placing her hands on the fur of his robe collar. "Or someone."

His smile unexpectedly faltered, turning into a deep frown as he glanced away.

"Ulfric, what is it?" she asked.

The king sighed harshly, turning to face her. "How long will this persist, Kajsa?" His voice was not low with lust now, but with anger. "How many more times will I wake up in the morning to find myself in an empty bed with a note on the pillow replacing you? How many more times will I hear Torgnyr crying out in the middle of the night for a mother who is not there?"

Kajsa bit her lip. "I don't know." She turned from him, and his arms fell away from her body as she began to walk towards the bed.

He followed her. "This is why we have your spies and mercenaries: to investigate and carry out the tasks that we cannot – or rather, _should_ not – do ourselves. You are their _commander_, not their comrade."

She whirled around. "There was no one else to do this and the notice was sudden. I had to –"

"No, you do _not_ have to!" Ulfric shouted suddenly. "It's dangerous outside of Windhelm, Kajsa, and I do not want Skyrim's High Queen and my wife risking her life over –"

"Over _what_?" the Dragonborn demanded, a hint of her Thu'um creeping into her voice. "Keeping Skyrim safe? Defeating the Thalmor? _Nowhere_ is safe from them, Ulfric. _Nowhere_." Her voice leveled, but there was still the same sense of urgency. "We have _always_ been risking our lives; why are you acting as though we have never done that?"

"Because I spoke to Sorleigh," the king said flatly, his eyes flashing. "If the Thalmor truly are crossing into Skyrim, I want you _here_." He sighed, the fury going out of him. "You are a queen now, Kajsa. At least try to act like one."

"Then I will _try_ to be as diplomatic as I can, as befitting of a _queen_," she said tightly, stepping up to him. "Tomorrow, Ronan Sorleigh and I are journeying up to Winterhold to seek out information from the College. We will be gone for two days. Then I will come back and I will be the queen you want me to be again. Does that please you?" The last four words were spat out.

"That _would_ please me," Ulfric said quietly, coldly.

"Good," she replied viciously, turning her back on him again. She crawled onto the bed and up to the headboard. Pulling the blankets up over herself, she wriggled out of her trousers and tossed them onto a nearby chair before snuffing out the candle on the nightstand. Lying back on her side, Kajsa closed her eyes and tried not to think about anything.

In the dim light, she heard her husband getting out of his own clothes and placing them in the still-open wardrobe. His footsteps brushed over the floor and his side of the bed creaked as he lay down beside her and pulled her close to him, winding his arms around her once more.

Despite herself, she squirmed around to face him, leaning her head up against his chest. After sleeping in unfamiliar beds without anyone near her for the past few nights, she had missed his warmth, the way he held her at night. Even after all the time they'd been together, his touch still made her feel more safe than anything else she knew.

When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. "Do you trust Ronan Sorleigh?"

"I'm not sure yet." She was relieved that the conversation had taken a different turn. "What do you think?"

"He seems honest enough, but appearances can be deceiving."

_Like his father proved. _The Dragonborn swallowed.

"Just be careful." His finger traced the wound on her waist as he kissed the top of her head. "I don't want you to get hurt, Kajsa. You know that."

She snorted softly. "It's just a trip to Winterhold. I'll be fine, Ulfric." _The real question is: what will we discover there? _

_And will Ronan continue to be as trustworthy as he seems to be?_

* * *

**[A/N] Next chapter: arriving in Winterhold and meeting some more new people. In the meantime, leave a review! I love hearing your thoughts about my fics, and your input never fails to make my day. :D **

**Until next week!**


	8. Mind Over Matter

******************[A/N] Short chapter is... well, short. But between two tests, innumerable quizzes, and (successful) auditions for the fall play, I consider it pretty lucky that I even got _any_ writing done. :)**

******************[D****************************************************************************************ISCLAIMER] I do not own The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or anything related to it; that's Bethesda's deal, not mine (sadly). However, Ronan Sorleigh and Kajsa Red-Blade are my original characters, and they belong to me.**

* * *

_**CHAPTER**__** VIII**__** –**__** Mind Over Matter**_

"_This_ is Winterhold?" Ronan asked in disbelief, staring at the ramshackle settlement. There were maybe three or four buildings total – including what was presumably the inn and the jarl's longhouse – and all the rest were destroyed: roofs caved in, walls collapsed, crumbling chimneys, splintered foundations covered in snow. In the distance, nearly hidden by the swirling snowflakes, a square, stone tower rose over all other buildings, mysterious and austere.

Kajsa nodded, slowing her horse down to a more leisurely pace. "Surprised?" she asked dryly.

"A little," he confessed, following her lead and reining his own mount in. "I didn't expect the damage from the Great Collapse to be this great... or even to still persist."

The Dragonborn glanced at him with suspicion. "And here I thought you didn't know much about Skyrim."

Ronan chuckled wearily. _Always looking for a reason to distrust me... _"That's true; I don't know much about this land and its customs. But I _do _know Tamrielic history quite well."

She raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.

The Breton sighed to himself. He hadn't gotten much sleep the previous night, having spent it lying awake in bed with a million thoughts and suppositions running through his head and keeping him from sleep – _much like the night before that,_ he thought wryly. When he did close his eyes, it was an easily disturbed, dreamless, up satisfying sleep.

Admittedly, he'd felt better once he and Kajsa had gotten on the road; Windhelm had made him inexplicably nervous. It was very much a Nordic city, not to mention the home of the High King and Queen, and he'd felt like an interloper in more ways than one – not to mention that _one _paranoid, moody ruler was enough for him; in many ways, Ulfric had made his wife seem tame.

_They have their reasons for who they have become, Ronan._ Nocturnal's voice startled him, nearly causing him to fall off the saddle._ As do you._

Ronan nearly cursed out loud, but held his tongue. _Must you always_... eavesdrop_ on my thoughts like that? _he demanded.

_Yes._

Kajsa looked over at him, frowning. "Is it Her again?" she asked exasperatedly.

The Breton nodded mutely.

"Just keep it to yourself." Dismounting from her horse, a hardy-looking black stallion with eyes that seemed to glow red in the dimming light, she looped the reins over a rail outside the inn and tied them off securely. "The College may be here, but that doesn't mean they're not wary of the Daedra – to say nothing about the townspeople."

He nodded again. _Is that all I'm good for now? Agreeing? _"Why are we stopping here? I thought that our destination was the College." He gestured towards the half-hidden tower.

"We can't get in unless we're students – or wish to become ones – teachers, or accompanied by one of the two. I happen to know where we can find an escort." She started up the low wooden steps towards the inn door. "Tie up your horse and follow me. And you might want to keep your hood up for the time being."

* * *

"Well, well, well... if it isn't our old Guildmaster, back on my doorstep again," the wiry Bosmer in rumpled mage robes said with a sleazy grin. "Although I hear you've moved on to bigger and better things."

"Better is debatable." The Dragonborn shook his hand. "How's things, Enthir?"

Enthir waved her question away. "Don't talk to me about business. Not without a good strong drink."

"That's not an option right now."

"Pity," he sighed, leaning back against the table and propping his elbows up on it. "Any luck with the tip I sent you? I figured you might want to know about a Thalmor agent poking around the College."

Ronan's brow furrowed._ Is he talking about Valmir?_

"Actually, that's what we're here about," Kajsa said briskly. "We need to gain entrance to the College of Winterhold. I have a few things to discuss with the Arch-Mage."

The Bosmer groaned. "Don't talk to me about that woman either. She's driving me insane." He leaned in and lowered his voice. "A month ago, she discovered that I was fencing stolen goods around the College, and she blackmailed me: she gets a cut – a rather _substantial_ cut – of my profits and she doesn't go to the jarl." He threw up his hands in exaggerated despair. "She's ruining me!"

"How about your little skooma operation?"

"_Two_ months ago," Enthir growled. "I'm practically a pauper now! And ever since you recruited my nephew into your little cabal, there's been no one to help me out!"

"Finn's actually closer now," the Dragonborn said. "A trip to Winterhold from Dawnstar is much shorter than the trip from Riften. And to be fair, it's not as though he did much in Winterhold besides drinking and whoring, let alone keeping your business running."

"At least he wasn't doing runs across the Dominion's borders," the Bosmer grumbled, but all the irritation had gone out of him. "He's going to get himself killed one of these days."

"You underestimate your nephew's abilities, Enthir," Kajsa said simply. "Now, are you going to secure us an audience with the Arch-Mage or not?"

"'Us'?" Enthir craned his head to get a better look at the still-hooded Ronan, and his orange eyes narrowed. "Who's he?"

_He was one of Gallus's dearest friends__ – __and he was the first to know of Mercer's crimes against the Guild,_ Nocturnal whispered. _He helped Karliah to flee after Gallus's murder, and he has never forgotten what your father did. He will know your face._

Swallowing hard, the Breton pushed back his hood. "My name is Ronan Sorleigh," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I'm with the High Rock Guild."

The Bosmer was struck dumb with shock for a moment, then he glanced towards Kajsa for an explanation. "Guildmaster, I know you're not blind. Surely you've noticed that –"

"Yes, he's Mercer's son," the Dragonborn answered shortly. "That's not relevant right now. What matters is you getting us into the College."

Enthir glared in Ronan's direction. "How do you know he isn't going to stab you in the back like his da did to Gallus and Karliah – like he did to _you_?"

"She spared my life," the Breton said firmly. "Betrayal is not how I'd want to repay her."

The Bosmer chuckled. "Ah, a thief with scruples. They tend not to last long." He sobered quickly.

"Can you get us into the College?" Kajsa repeated, an edge to her voice.

Enthir sighed, running a hand through his red hair. "Yes, yes, whatever you want. If I know the Arch-Mage, she's probably still awake at this hour anyway." He stood up and started to walk towards the door of the inn, but not without a suspicious scowl towards Ronan. "Come on."

The Dragonborn turned to follow him, and Ronan did the same – and ran into a heavyset blond Nord with bloodshot eyes.

"'Ey!" the man slurred, pushing him away. "Watch where yer goin'!"

"My apologies," the Breton said, but the Nord had already staggered off towards the seat that Enthir had vacated.

Ronan suddenly realized that there was something heavy in his left hand. Starting to walk towards the door, he surreptitiously opened his palm and gaped when he saw what it was: a ragged coin purse with a few septims jingling inside.

He frowned. _This isn't mine._

_No, it's not,_ Nocturnal agreed. _It belongs to the drunkard you just bumped into__._

Furrowing his brow, the Breton tried to think back to a few seconds ago, but much to his bafflement, he didn't remember the actual act of pickpocketing: it was just a blank darkness in his mind.

Then it dawned on him. _It was __Y__ou!_

_Pardon?_ the Daedric Prince asked innocently.

Ronan gritted his teeth, pushing open the door and emerging outside into the freezing night air. _You__ – __You _influenced_ me to steal from him! You took control of me!_

Much to his chagrin, she only laughed._ But is that not what thieves do?__ Steal?_

_I didn't want to steal from him. I wasn't going to steal from him._

_You're all too fond of helping people,_ Nocturnal said coolly. _What if I were to tell you that the man you just robbed is an alcoholic who will have no more drinks tonight because you took the last of his money? That he'll leave Winterhold tomorrow to do something useful with his life instead of just drinking himself into an early grave?_

_I'd say that you're lying to me,_ he retorted angrily, picking up the pace to catch up with Kajsa and Enthir.

The Daedric Prince sighed. _You still have a long way to go, Ronan, before you realize that things do not happen by mere chance. Fate is intervening in your future__ – __and it will continue to do so for quite some time._

Ronan ignored her, continuing to stomp through the snow, the coin purse still weighing heavily in his hand.

* * *

**[A/N] Next chapter: a meeting with the Arch-Mage that reveals some surprising information. In the meantime, don't forget to review (as I love hearing what you all think about this fic!)**


	9. The Artifacts and the Arch-Mage

******************[A/N] Hey, a long chapter for once! :) I think you guys are going to enjoy this one...**

******************[D****************************************************************************************ISCLAIMER] I do not own The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or anything related to it; that's Bethesda's deal, not mine (sadly). However, Ronan Sorleigh, Kajsa Red-Blade, and ************************************************************************************************************Siladhiel Alassë are my original characters, and they belong to me.**

* * *

_**CHAPTER**__** IX**__** –**__** The Artifacts and the Arch-Mage**_

Trudging up the narrow flight of spiraling stairs, Ronan was embroiled in his bitter thoughts, barely noticing the hushed conversation of Kajsa and Enthir ahead of him. He'd been too preoccupied to even notice where they were going or that they were inside the College in the first place. What Nocturnal had made him do to the drunkard in the inn still weighed heavily on his mind.

_If She can take control of me, if I'm no more than a pawn__ – _Her _paw__n – __is having Her favor really worth it?_ He continued to climb the stairs numbly, his feet feeling more and more like bags of bricks with every step._ Did She do this to Kajsa as well? Or is She just punishing me in place of my fa__ – __Mercer?_

He wouldn't lie; the recent revelations about Mercer Frey – the father he never knew about, the father that didn't raise him – still disturbed him. But what made him most melancholy was the fact that there was no one to say a kind word about Frey: a man he was the very image of.

_But that doesn't mean I am wholly like him as well!_ he cried out mentally. _They judge my character through that of a dead man!_

_As far as many are concerned, the apple does not fall far from the tree,_ Nocturnal said smoothly. _What they do not understand about you is the fact that you rolled away._

Enthir's voice interrupted the conversation. "We're here."

The Breton finally looked up from his scuffed boots, and his breath caught in his throat. Ahead of the landing the three of them were on lay a circular chamber with a high vaulted ceiling illuminated by balls of magelight serenely bobbing in the air. In the center lay a small garden sheltered by a stone wall, blooming with alchemical herbs and fungi with a gnarled juniper tree towering over all other plants. Banners emblazoned with the eye sigil of the College hung on the walls, but as far as Ronan could see, it was very sparsely furnished.

An imperious female voice rang out from somewhere behind the garden wall. "You have five seconds to identify yourselves before I blast you into Oblivion."

Ronan tensed, his hand going to one of the steel daggers at his side.

"Charming, isn't she?" the Bosmer muttered before raising his voice. "It's just me, Arch-Mage. I have some guests who wish to see you."

"And this could not wait until morning?" the Arch-Mage demanded.

"No, it cannot," Kajsa cut in coldly. "This is a rather urgent matter."

The still unseen Arch-Mage heaved a dramatic sigh. "Very well. I can always take a nap in the afternoon in lieu of my sleep tonight, I suppose, though it would be a terrible inconvenience."

After a brief rustling of silk, a statuesque, thin Altmer woman stepped out from behind the garden wall, tying up the front of a Cyrodilic-style dressing gown. Her pale blonde hair was piled on top of her head, and her bony face displayed pointed cheekbones and a narrow nose. Traces of makeup were still evident around her slanted green eyes.

"Who have you brought me this time, Enthir?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. Even in the dim light, Ronan noted the glint of a ring as she impatiently drummed her fingers on her forearm. "Do be polite and make introductions."

Rolling his eyes, Enthir gestured to his companions with a slightly exaggerated wave of his hand. "I believe you are already familiar with Kajsa, but this is Ronan Sorleigh. May I present –" here, his hand flipped towards the Altmer "– Siladhiel Alassë, Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold."

"High Queen." Siladhiel made a small, courtly curtsy; it struck the Breton as being unusually polite for an Altmer, especially towards a Nord. "As always, it is a pleasure to see you." She scrutinized the other woman with pursed lips. "Have you shrunk since our last meeting? For a heroine of legend, you look rather short."

"Everyone looks small to an Altmer," the Dragonborn said wryly.

The Arch-Mage shrugged languidly. "Fair enough. You can leave now, Enthir," she said pointedly, addressing the Bosmer. "Go disturb someone else's sleep and leave me be."

Enthir cleared his throat and flashed a charming smile. "Actually, Arch-Mage, I've been meaning to discuss your little tariff on my smuggling –"

A hissing, crackling ball of ice appeared over one of Siladhiel's hands. "Get. Out. _Now._"

Smile wiped from his face, the Bosmer slunk out of the chamber.

The Arch-Mage clenched her hand over the Frostbite spell, willing it away. "By Mora's mandibles, I can only deal with that obnoxious, sleazy elf once a week," she huffed exasperatedly. "Now, what was it that you wanted?"

Slinging the long bundle off of her back, Kajsa presented it to the other woman. "We have some artifacts that you might be interested in."

"You had me at 'artifacts.'" Eyes gleaming, Siladhiel gestured to a mostly-bare desk to one side of her quarters. "Put them over there and let me take a look at them."

Both of them walked to the desk, Ronan trailing after them. The Dragonborn laid the bundle down and quickly unwrapped it, then stepped away.

The Arch-Mage peeled aside what remained of the cloth and lifted up Rahgot's staff, running her fingers along the elaborate carvings. "I've seen this design before on more current destruction staves, but this particular one is quite a bit older," she mused, her snappish manner gone. "I'd say it's probably from the First Era at the earliest, but it's quite well-preserved." She glanced over her shoulder at Kajsa. "Where exactly did you find this?"

"A Nordic barrow called Forelhost on the edge of the Rift," the other answered.

Siladhiel raised an eyebrow at the name. "I presume this is a Dragon Priest staff, then. Were you so kind as to bring the mask as well?"

Kajsa removed Rahgot's mask from the wrappings and held it up, the dull metal barely catching a shine in the magelight. Putting down the staff, the Arch-Mage took it from her and ran her hand over it, her fingers glowing with the light of a spell that Ronan was not familiar with.

"It's a very fine enchantment, I'll give the Dragon Cult that," the Altmer muttered, a hint of envy in her tone. "It seems to increase the strength and fortitude of the bearer by quite a bit."

"Really," the Dragonborn said neutrally, but her eyes were dark with rumination.

For a brief moment, Ronan wondered what she was thinking, but he hastily willed the notion away. _I don't want to see what's inside her mind or anyone else's,_ he said pointedly towards Nocturnal.

The Daedric Prince laughed, raising goosebumps on the back of his neck. _Never you fret, my Champion. It's far more convenient for me to raise questions than reveal the truth._

"Now, High Queen," Siladhiel was saying, "what in Oblivion were you in the Rift delving into an ancient tomb in the first place? Last I checked, the Palace of the Kings was in Windhelm."

Kajsa ignored the sarcasm. "Do you recall the Altmer who claimed to be a Dragon Cult scholar who was trying to get permission to access the Arcaneum a while ago? The one you had Enthir write a letter to me about?"

The Arch-Mage wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Unfortunately, yes. I remember that nosy little know-it-all – he never did mention his name; have you found it out?"

"He told me that his name was Valmir," Ronan said haltingly. "He was a Thalmor agent."

The Altmer glanced at him, raising her eyebrow a little further, and then looked back at Kajsa. "He's another one of yours, I presume? You must have an army of them by now."

_Another one of __her __what?_ the Breton wanted to ask, but he kept quiet.

"Not precisely," the Dragonborn corrected. "What he says is true, however. Valmir was looking to get into Forelhost to retrieve the artifacts, and he hired Sorleigh to help him do it."

"Do you know why?" Siladhiel asked, all haughtiness gone.

"Not yet," Kajsa admitted. "But... this is a disturbing development, all the same."

"I'll say." The Arch-Mage gingerly placed Rahgot's mask back on the desk, as if it were a coiled snake that she feared would strike at her. "Wait here. I have something to show you." With that, she turned around and vanished back behind the garden wall.

After some quiet, but creative cursing, the click of a lock opening, and a protesting squeak of hinges, the Altmer re-emerged with something cradled in her arms. As she drew closer, Ronan saw what it was with a start: a Dragon Priest mask, this one made out of some silvery-blue metal.

The Dragonborn noticed it too. "A Dragon Priest mask? Where did you get that?"

"Morokei." Despite the harsh, guttural sound of the name, Siladhiel pronounced it precisely. "Found in Labyrinthian – another overly large Nordic barrow that the Thalmor were unusually interested in."

Some of the color drained out of Kajsa's cheeks. "You mean to say that this has happened before with another tomb, another Dragon Priest?"

"That's what I'm getting at, yes." The Arch-Mage's tone lost its sarcasm as she sobered. "But the mask was only a secondary prize. The Thalmor were after something else."

"There's a story behind this, I take it," the Dragonborn commented.

"Mora's mammaries, of _course_ there is!" the Altmer exclaimed with an emphatic sigh. "In fact, it might just be easier to explain it to you from the beginning."

"That would be best," Kajsa said dryly, crossing her arms.

Siladhiel placed Morokei's mask on the table and then turned to face them again to begin her story. "During my first year here, the College was excavating a Nordic ruin nearby Winterhold called Saarthal. I don't suppose either of you know what that is," she added with a disdainful sniff.

"One of the first human settlements in Skyrim," Ronan answered, recalling the name from lessons long-ago. "It was built by the first Nords from Atmora during the Merethic Era, but it was sacked by the Snow Elves during the Night of Tears."

"Ah, a historian." He thought the Arch-Mage looked slightly impressed, but that might have been wishful thinking. "Have you read the rather foreboding _Night of Tears_ by Dranor Seleth, by chance?"

"I think so," the Breton said hesitantly. "Is that where Seleth puts forward his theory that Saarthal was razed because the elves discovered that the Nords had found – _something?_ Some object of great power that they attempted to keep hidden?"

"Well, Seleth had that much right." The Altmer's tone was wry, but her countenance was grave. "We discovered 'something' all right: an exceedingly strange orb with even stranger markings, floating in the very heart of the site.

"The Eye of Magnus, as we came to call it, baffled all enquiry. Tolfdir, our Senior Enchanter, examined the script when it was brought back to the College; he said it resembled no other alphabet he'd ever seen. Consultation with Urag proved mostly fruitless, as there was no way to determine its origin or how old it could possibly be.

"But then –" she sighed heavily "– there were complications. And one of them was named Ancano." Siladhiel spat the name as if it were poison.

"Who's Ancano?" Ronan asked, puzzled.

"An advisor to the my predecessor as Arch-Mage, Savos Aren, but it was suspected – and rightfully so – that he had ties to the Dominion." She shrugged tightly. "He did, and we all payed dearly for our inaction."

"How did you know he was with the Dominion?" The question was out of the Breton's mouth before he could stop it.

The Arch-Mage fixed him with a cool stare. "Let me think. Obliviously enough, he paraded around the College in Justiciar robes and talked of the 'superiority of the Thalmor.' He attempted to draw power from the Eye of Magnus, tearing rifts in Mundus and unleashing magical anomalies _and_ killing the Arch-Mage in the process. He tried to have me killed when I went to Labyrinthian to fetch the only artifact that could have possibly contained the staff." She pretended to think. "Oh, and let's not forget the fact that I was once engaged to the bastard, so I should think that I knew he was a high-level operative with the Dominion."

Ronan flushed at her vitriolic response.

"Let's go back to Labyrinthian for a moment," the Dragonborn cut in before he could apologize for his rudeness. "What was the artifact that could contain the Eye?"

"The Staff of Magnus, an incredibly powerful staff that was in the possession of a certain Dragon Priest." She tapped Morokei's mask. "I wish I could show it to you, but it was unfortunately destroyed when I neutralized the Eye."

"And you say the Thalmor had interest in it?"

"Not to mention the mask," the Altmer reminded. "The assassin that Ancano sent said as much. I would have inquired as to what the Thalmor wanted a bloody mask for, but I was a little busy dodging some nasty Destruction spells to ask."

Kajsa looked grim. "Then the Thalmor have been at this longer than I imagined." She pointed towards Rahgot's staff and mask. "Can you keep these safe?"

Siladhiel nodded, folding the wrapping over them and Morokei's mask. "I'll see if I can get Urag and Phineus to put some more security around the College, and I'll talk to Tolfdir and Faralda about maintaining the entry procedures. No Thalmor is going to get their hands on these."

"Excellent. Thank you for your aid, as always." The Dragonborn turned and started to walk out. "And you really should consider letting up on Enthir a little."

The Arch-Mage snorted. "As long as that nephew of his keeps his philandering and poor life decisions _off _College grounds, I'll be happy to." She secured the bundle and gathered it up in her arms.

Ronan lingered for a moment. "Arch-Mage... if you don't mind my asking... what happened to Ancano and the Eye?"

"Ancano's dead," the Altmer said crisply. "As for the Eye... well, it's not on Mundus any more, and we're all better off for it." Her face was drawn and stiff. "It's a shame that we weren't able to study it more, but I dread to think what the Dominion would have done with it."

* * *

"How do you know she can be trusted?" Ronan asked once he and Kajsa had left the College courtyard.

"Because I know her," the Dragonborn stated, starting off across the worn, ice-covered bridge. "I've aided her in the past and we've corresponded for quite some time. I trust Siladhiel to keep secrets."

"But – aren't you worried? I mean... she _is_ an Alt –" He abruptly shut his mouth before he could say the rest of his sentence, but it was too late.

Kajsa turned her head to glare at him. "Just as all Nords did not support my husband and his Stormcloaks, not all Altmer support the Dominion. And I should think that you should know better than to judge based on appearances."

The Breton swallowed at the stinging retort.

"Appearances can be deceiving." Pulling her hood up over her head, the Dragonborn continued down the treacherous path. "I should know that much."

Ronan followed her in silence, almost afraid to speak out of turn. Then: "What did she mean when she asked you if I was 'another one of yours'?"

"She thought you were one of my spies."

The Breton blinked. "Spies?"

"Yes, spies." They had descended from the bridge and were passing under the archway of the tower at its foot. "I take care of diplomatic relations and intelligence; it's proved rather advantageous to have eyes in other provinces and countries – especially in the Dominion's territory," she finished darkly.

Ronan's feet hit the snow blanketing the road running through Winterhold and he shivered, despite his boots and the woolen socks inside them. "Is that how you know about the Thalmor's dealings in Skyrim?" he asked. "Do you have any idea what they're trying to do?"

Kajsa turned her head to answer, but her eyes widened in alarm. "Behind you!"

"Wha –?" He whipped around – just as he was knocked to the ground by a dark, hulking mass.

* * *

**[A/N] Sorry about the - *ducks flying objects* - cliffhanger. I'll be back next week with another chapter, but in the meantime - *takes shelter* - don't forget to leave a review!**


	10. Under Attack

******************[A/N] ... And another chapter completed! This was a busy week with lots of moving parts - most of them academic-related - but I'm glad that I was able to finish this, because we finally get to... well, I'll just let you read.**

******************[D****************************************************************************************ISCLAIMER] I do not own The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or anything related to it; that's Bethesda's deal, not mine (sadly). However, Ronan Sorleigh, Kajsa Red-Blade, and Fenella Cadarn************************************************************************************************************ are my original characters, and they belong to me.**

* * *

_**CHAPTER**__** X**__** –**__** Under Attack**_

The paws, black as night and tipped with razor-sharp claws, were the first thing that struck him. Ronan felt the breath yanked from his lungs as he fell back on the snowy ground and the hound leapt on his chest with a snarl, spittle dripping from its snaggle-toothed maw and red eyes glowing in the dark.

He flung out one hand in front of him to try and stave off the hound – or whatever it was – from his throat, gritting his teeth as he felt his shoulder being forced back with the effort. The other hand desperately scrabbled for one of his daggers. _Come on, come on – _please_ let it be here – _

The hound-thing snarled, lunging forward again, and the Breton brought his weapon up and drove it into the beast's stomach. Letting out a whining growl, the hound collapsed on top of him as it died; Ronan gasped for breath as the weight of it collided with him.

He flailed in the snow for a moment and succeeded in wriggling out from underneath it, yanking his dagger out as he staggered to his feet, frantically looking around. _Where in Oblivion did that thing come from?_

"ZUN – HAAL VIIK!"

His head swiveled towards the source of the cry, still brandishing his weapon. Kajsa had her own blade out, stabbing an shambling, unarmed bandit dressed in furs; he disintegrated into ashes almost instantly.

Lowering her sword, the Dragonborn glanced over at him. "You all right?" she asked brusquely.

The Breton was about to answer when he saw a shadowy figure flit out from a wrecked homestead behind her. "Look out!"

Kajsa spun around, her blade flashing in a wide arc around her. Her new attacker – a stocky bearded man with pale, filthy skin and blazing orange eyes – snarled as he leapt back, summoning a sinister-looking crimson spell in one hand and aiming it towards her. The Dragonborn charged forward, but he dodged, slashing out at her with the steel sword he gripped in one hand. It caught Kajsa in the arm, slicing through her leather armor.

The Dragonborn cursed through gritted teeth. Switching her blade to her other hand, she drew a silver dagger from a sheath at her belt and brought it back to throw it at him.

Suddenly, her opponent stiffened, his sword falling from his grasp and the spell in his hand snuffing out. Letting out a choking gurgle, Kajsa's attacker dropped to the snowy ground; unlike the bandit before him, his body did not turn into ash.

Ronan blinked at the sight of the oddly short arrow protruding from the man's back where it had ran him through. _Who fired that?_

A gruff, rumbling voice came from behind him. "Nice work, boy."

Turning around, he saw a tall, broad-chested Orc with graying hair gathered into a topknot, wearing armor that the Breton had never seen before: a leather coat underneath a buckled, belted vest reinforced with steel plates, along with sturdy boots and gauntlets. A war axe with a strangely curved blade was tucked into his belt, and he held something that could be best described as a stubby, mechanical bow made of wood and steel; its utilitarian design reminded Ronan of a Dwemer mechanism.

"Thank you," he said finally, finding his voice. "Erm... good shot." The Breton gestured awkwardly back towards the dead man on the ground.

The Orc chuckled humorlessly. "Just have to fire before they do." He slung the odd bow onto his back, then turned to address Kajsa. "You're not bad with a blade yourself. The Dawnguard could use more warriors like you."

"I'm a bit busy ruling Skyrim at the moment," the Dragonborn said wryly, sheathing her sword and summoning a restoration spell to mend the cut on her arm. "Besides, I'm used to my opponents being slower than me."

His eyebrows lifted, but he bowed his head slightly. "Then I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at your swordsmanship, High Queen."

Ronan's brow furrowed. "Who are you? And what's the Dawnguard?"

"We're vampire hunters. We search out and destroy those bloodsucking scum wherever we find them." He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the dead man – _vampire,_ Ronan corrected himself. "As for me, I'm Durak. I'm out recruiting anyone who wants to fight with the Dawnguard against the vampire menace."

"I haven't noticed any 'vampire menace,'" the Breton said hesitantly.

"I'd have to agree with him," Kajsa said coolly. "This is the first I've heard of it."

Durak snorted. "Then you aren't paying attention, _High Queen, _like most everyone else around here." Despite his caustic tone, he sobered. "A night ago, the Hall of the Vigilants was destroyed by vampires. _They _never took the threat seriously, and now they've paid the price."

The Dragonborn frowned. "Truly? The Vigil is wiped out?"

"I witnessed the destruction they left behind at the Hall. I've been tracking some of the bloodsuckers who perpetrated the attack, and one of them decided to flee up to Winterhold." He shrugged tightly. "You know the rest."

Kajsa's countenance was bleak. "My husband should be informed of this. I hope you do not object to accompanying my companion and I back to Windhelm; we'll need your testimony." Her voice was colder than the night air.

"Hold there, Orc." A helmeted guard holding a torch aloft approached them before the Dawnguard agent could answer. "What's going on here?"

"Vampire attack," Durak said shortly. "I'd suggest you make sure that the townspeople get inside and lock their doors."

"Vampires?" Despite the fact that his face was hidden, Ronan could almost hear the guard's eyes bugging out. "By Talos, what are we going to do?"

By now, other guards had clustered around the corpses of the vampire and the hound, murmuring fearfully to each other. Some townspeople exiting the tavern stopped in their tracks to stare in horror at the scene.

"I'll tell you what you can do." The Orc turned to the small crowd, raising his voice. "You can join the Dawnguard and help defend your homeland against these monsters." He smiled grimly. "Prayers won't make them die, but a few well-placed bolts definitely will."

A long silence hung in the air after his words. A few guards glanced at each other, but neither of them made to move forward.

"I'll do it." A heavyset, blond Nord man elbowed his way to the front of the crowd of tavern-goers. "I'll come with you and help you kill the bastards."

The Breton suppressed a gasp. _That's him! The man Nocturnal had me pickpocket!_

"Ranmir!" the young woman in the worn yellow dress next to him hissed. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Doing something with my life, like you've always wanted me to do," Ranmir said acidly, his syllables slightly slurred. "Got no money, no prospects up in this shithole of a town – so why in Oblivion _not_, Birna? Tell me _that_."

Birna's face fell. "Please, brother," she pleaded. "I don't want to lose you."

Ignoring her, her sibling swaggered forward towards Durak. "So what do you think? Is the Dawnguard willing to take me?"

Durak examined him with a critical eye. Then: "I think Isran can make some use of you. Just lay off the drink and you'll be fine."

Ronan felt a chill seep through him as Nocturnal's words echoed in his mind again. _You knew this would happen, _he accused silently.

_Oh, he was going to leave Winterhold at some point or another, _the Daedric Prince purred. _I – excuse me, _you _– just gave him a little incentive._

The Breton swallowed.

_I'm not wholly malevolent, Ronan; I just have unorthodox ways of going about things. But now that you've met Durak... well, the pieces can start falling into place._

"The pieces of what?" he muttered.

As he expected, Ronan did not receive an answer.

* * *

"With all due respect, High King, I don't think you're grasping the severity of the situation." The woman's hard voice rang out in the still of the throne room. "The Vigil is all but wiped out and the Hall is destroyed. We need –"

"– aid in hunting down the vampires who attacked your comrades; I heard you before, Vigilant," Ulfric said coolly. "Forgive me, but I was under the impression that stamping out Daedra worship and hunting the undead was what the Vigil did."

"It would appear that the High King has already heard of what's transpired," Durak muttered to Kajsa, letting the tall bronze door fall shut behind him.

"Apparently," the Dragonborn agreed neutrally, beginning the long walk down the hall with the Orc beside her; after a pause, Ronan and Ranmir followed. "You didn't mention that there were survivors."

"That's because I didn't think there were any. The Vigil was always a soft bunch; they couldn't have hoped to stand up to an attack of this magnitude," Durak scoffed.

Upon hearing their approach, the woman standing before the throne turned around. She was a Breton, with long blonde hair pulled back from her round face in a tight plait and eyes like chips of ice. Raw, scarring slashes ran over her nose and mouth, marring her face, and there were bandages around her hands. Her robes were dirty and torn, and the steel mace hanging at her side looked suspiciously bloodstained.

"Vigilant Cadarn," the Orc stated flatly. "Somehow, I find it easy to believe that you made it out. Your blood too bitter for the vampires?"

_Most likely._ Nocturnal laughed herself, quiet and unsettling. _When a person is consumed with hatred for too long a time, it starts to become part of who they are._

_Like Mercer?_ Ronan asked hesitantly.

_Like your father,_ she agreed. _But the hatred of Vigilant Fenella Cadarn has nothing to do with jealousy__ or greed__._

He was about to ask what the Daedric Prince meant by that, but Fenella cut into his thoughts. "Have you come to gloat, Durak?" she snarled. "Come to dance on the graves of my brothers and sisters – of my _mother_?"

"It's a shame about Keeper Carcette, Fen," the Orc conceded gruffly, "but it was bound to happen. You Vigilants were never prepared for this."

"Because we are not like the beasts we hunt," the Vigilant spat. "Stendarr and His Vigil stand for mercy – and Isran and his lot are godless, remorseless animals. I've heard the stories of his time with the Vigil, and they're enough to make even the strongest heart quail."

"Yet look who's survived," Durak said sardonically. "Not the Vigil, that's for damn sure."

Ulfric interjected before Fenella could retort. "And who might you be?"

The Orc stepped forward, inclining his head briefly. "Durak. I'm recruiting anyone who wants to fight the vampire menace alongside the Dawnguard. I saw the aftermath of the attack on the Hall of the Vigilant, and I was up in Winterhold tracking one of the bloodsuckers who did it."

The High King's eyes flitted to Kajsa before he turned his attention back to Durak. "Vampire hunters, you say? I expect you're here looking for potential recruits."

"The Dawnguard needs all the men and women it can get," Durak answered.

"I'd advise that you speak to my Captain of the Guard, Ralof. He might have some names for you." Ulfric waved his hand towards a door at the far end of the main hall. "He should be in the barracks."

The Vigilant was aghast. "So you're willing to give men to these – these _barbarians_ and not lend any to one who is in need of men?"

"The guards are well-trained, but they are not prepared to face something as dangerous as a vampire," Kajsa cut in, stepping forward, "whereas hunting and killing vampires is what the Dawnguard does for a living. My husband and I are not willing to lose good men to something they can't possibly fight as they are."

Fenella's eyes narrowed. "Very well. If you will not aid me, _High King_ –" she glared at Ulfric "– then I will seek help elsewhere."

"That would be best," the High King stated tightly, his eyes hard.

Without bowing, the Vigilant shouldered her way past Ronan and the others and made her way to one of the doors. She yanked it open and vanished into the night before it closed behind her.

Durak was the first to break the still. "I'll see what your Captain has to offer me, then." He turned around, clapping Ronan on the shoulder. "Change your mind about joining, boy?"

The Breton shook his head. For the entire ride back from Winterhold, Durak had been trying to recruit him; he'd demurred multiple times. "Thank you, but my fighting skills aren't exactly up to par to fight vampires."

"That's the whole point of the training," the Orc said, chuckling. "If you ever change your mind, boy, go to the old fort in Dayspring Canyon, southeast of Riften, and talk to Isran."

"I – I'll keep it in mind," Ronan conceded reluctantly.

Durak nodded approvingly. "I'll see you there, then." He started towards the door to the barracks; after a pause, Ranmir tore his eyes from the bottles of mead on the table and followed him.

As soon as they'd left, Ulfric stood and descended from his throne. "You have an eerie sense of timing, my Queen."

"I thought you needed a little help, so I swooped in to the rescue," the Dragonborn said wryly.

The High King smiled, shaking his head, but it only lasted for a moment before he frowned. "Were you indeed attacked by vampires in Winterhold?"

Kajsa shrugged. "Well, it was only _o__ne_ vampire..."

Ulfric's mouth tightened. "Kajsa –"

"Can the haranguing wait until we're somewhere less public?" she interrupted, glancing at Ronan.

"Of course," the High King said smoothly, turning towards the door to the war room. "I will be waiting for you – _ol unstiid_." With that, he walked away and disappeared into the adjoining chamber.

Sighing irritably, the Dragonborn faced Ronan. "I trust you know where the room you stayed in last time was at?"

The Breton chewed his lip. "Actually, if – if you have no more need of me, I – I was thinking I might as well leave."

Her face remained largely impassive, but something akin to concern flickered in her eyes. "Where will you go, then?" she asked coolly. "Back to Daggerfall?"

Ronan swallowed. He had no desire to go back to High Rock and the house that could never be a home again, back to the Guild with his failure hanging over him, back to Jolaine, the woman who'd lied to him – the woman he'd once loved.

_I can't go back to the way things used to be. Now that I know..._

"No," he finally said. "I – I can't go back." Even though he didn't say the words, it felt as though he was admitting that he was lost, that he had nowhere to turn.

Kajsa smiled, but it was rueful and bitter. "Then you go forward."

* * *

"You need a ride?" The cart's driver, bundled up in a thick fur cloak against the snow filling the night air, squinted down at him through the storm. "I can take you to any of the hold capitals for a price."

Ronan hesitated, his fingers clenching around Ranmir's coin purse as if it would help steel his resolve. He still had no idea what he was going to do, but at least he knew where he was headed.

"How much to go to Riften?"

* * *

**[A/N] Well, I've finally kicked off the Dawnguard questline! (Took me long enough.)**

**Next chapter: Ronan pays a call on a certain Nightingale, and then gets himself into a spot of trouble when he crosses paths with an OC that readers of Mirage159's fics will definitely know. Until then, please leave a review, 'cause you know I love those things!**


	11. Intrusions

******************[A/N] I'm glad I ended up starting this chapter early, because it turned out to be a lot longer than I thought it would - once I started writing the last segment, I just found it hard to stop. :)  
**

******************So here's a nice, lengthy chapter for you all. And Mirage159, this one's for you. ;)**

******************[D****************************************************************************************ISCLAIMER] I do not own The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or anything related to it; that's Bethesda's deal, not mine (sadly). However, Ronan Sorleigh, Kajsa Red-Blade, and Finverior************************************************************************************************************ are my original characters, and they belong to me.**

* * *

_**CHAPTER**__** XI**__** –**__** Intrusions**_

Nearly hidden by yellowed grass and sparse shrubs, the cave loomed before him, craggy and foreboding. To one side was a single slender birch tree, gleaming in the faint moonslight of the evening, and to the other was a squat stone obelisk carved with a relief of a bird with its wings outstretched and curving around a full moon. Both showed where to look, but only one gave a clue to what the enlightened might find inside.

Standing before the entrance to Nightingale Hall, Ronan could not help but feel some trepidation, even a little anxiety. He knew that this was where he wanted to go – after he'd gotten off the cart at the Riften stables, he'd chosen to walk in this direction rather than enter the city – but at the same time, the Breton was questioning whether or not this was truly a wise idea.

_You wanted to find out more about Nocturnal, about the Nightingales, about Mercer... and this is the place to get the answers to those questions, _he chided himself. _Brynjolf and Karliah know who you are; you don't have anything to fear from them._

Yet as he took a single, tentative step forward, and then another and another, Ronan wondered if he should really be here all the same.

* * *

Karliah was seated in a wooden chair in one of the back corners of the Hall, reading a book propped up on her lap, but she looked up when Ronan approached. Fear flashed across her face at first, and the Breton swallowed and nearly took a step back, but she relaxed just as quickly.

"Ronan," she greeted him, closing her book. "What brings you back to Nightingale Hall? I thought you were with Kajsa." Her tone was relieved, but her eyes were still wary.

"We parted ways after we returned from Winterhold."

The Dunmer nodded. "How was the trip?"

He shrugged uncertainly. "I don't really know if it was fruitful or not; most of what the High Queen and the Arch-Mage spoke of flew right over my head. Must be nice to be in the loop," he added, smiling.

Karliah smiled slightly as well, the last of the tension leaving her body. "Conversations with Kajsa sometime have that tendency."

The Breton laughed to himself, but sobered slightly. "Are the High King and Queen always... the way they are?" he finished, not really knowing how to express it. "From what I've seen, it doesn't really seem like they have a happy marriage."

She shook her head, still smiling. "They may not act it, but Kajsa and Ulfric are very much in love with each other. They just have strange ways of showing it." Karliah motioned to one of the neatly made beds nearby. "Why don't you sit down? If you're coming from Windhelm, I imagine you must be tired."

"Thank you, but I actually wanted to talk to you or Brynjolf." Ronan settled himself into the makeshift seat. "About... you know..." His voice trailed off. "Things."

The Dunmer sighed quietly. "Yes, I imagine you would." She straightened up in her seat. "What would you like to talk about?"

"The Nightingales." He shifted his feet around on the cave floor uncomfortably. "I've heard the stories; I think every thief has. But... I want to know the truth."

Karliah folded her hands over her book. "Put very simply, the Nightingales are a trio of thieves – highly skilled ones – who serve Nocturnal. In return for protecting the Twilight Sepulcher and the power that lies within, they are granted gifts by Her."

"What kind of gifts? Gifts like hearing Nocturnal's voice in your mind?" the Breton asked sardonically.

She shook her head. "No, not quite. Within the Trinity, each Nightingale has their own unique abilities. I am the Agent of Stealth, and when I choose, I can become as one with the shadows: unable to be seen or heard. Brynjolf is the Agent of Subterfuge, and as such, he can convince and persuade people of whatever he wishes them to believe. And Kajsa is the Agent of Strife, and her gifts allow her to quickly put an end to whomever crosses her path."

"It seems like the Agent of Strife is more suited to being an assassin and murderer than a thief," Ronan mused, but he paused when he saw the Dunmer's stricken face. "I – I'm sorry," he managed. "I didn't mean to bring up Mercer –"

"Ronan, why else are you here if not to bring up Mercer?" Karliah said wearily, her countenance still drawn and pained. "You seem like you already know plenty about the Nightingales from the bits and pieces we've told you already – but not about _him_."

The Breton swallowed. "I – I actually didn't want to ask you about that. I know it must be painful for you, so –" Realizing what he must sound like, he abruptly arose from the bed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come back."

"Sit down, Ronan," she said softly.

He slowly sat back down, despite the sudden feeling that he was unwelcome here.

The Dunmer smiled sadly. "You may resemble him in appearance, but not in character."

"Yet others see my face and they don't bother to look past it," he pointed out irritably.

"I know, and I apologize. The blame for Mercer's actions falls to him and him alone, not to you. I should have learned that by now."

"Is he really that hated?" the Breton asked. "Almost everyone I've talked to or met that knew him... they are less than kind to me."

Karliah sighed. "Mercer touched many lives, and very few were in beneficial ways. He betrayed the Guild's trust and stole from them, he broke his Oath to Nocturnal, and he did grievous harm to Kajsa and me."

"And he didn't even know or care that he had a son," Ronan finished bitterly._ I never even knew him, but... I can't help judging him along with everyone else._

There was a silence for a moment. The Breton found himself fidgeting with his fingers, suddenly nervous for what was to come.

The Dunmer broke the still. "I've been doing some reading about Nocturnal and Her connections to the Trinity, and I can't find anything about your... circumstance." She leaned back in her seat, arms draped over the armrests; it struck Ronan how tired she looked. "Has she spoken to you since you were here last?"

"Yes. Numerous times. And –" he paused, unsure of whether or not to tell her "– She controlled me. She made me pickpocket someone without even realizing that I did it."

Karliah frowned. "That is... certainly unusual. None of us can hope to fathom Nocturnal's whims and motives, but –"

"Can She look into the future?" the Breton interrupted.

A pause. Then: "I believe that all Daedric Princes have some sense of things to come, but as far as I know, only Hermaeus Mora can predict the future directly. Nocturnal's realm is that of luck and, to a lesser extent, what one might call coincidences."

"So She... _pushes_ people towards a course through manipulation of their luck?"

The Dunmer nodded. "That's one way to put it, yes." Her fingers tapped the cover of her book idly. "Speaking of courses... where will you go after this conversation is ended? Do you think you will stay in Skyrim?"

"Possibly," he admitted, looking down at his boots. "I – I don't really want to return to Daggerfall. There's just – I – I don't think it's where I'm meant to be anymore."

"And where do you think you _are _meant to be?" she inquired gently.

"I don't know." He smiled wryly. "I suppose it would be too much to hope that I could stay in Riften and join the Guild here?"

"It might." Karliah's face was full of sympathy. "Brynjolf and I can try to talk to the others, but... I think the wounds left by Mercer are still not yet closed. The Guild may not listen to reason." Her voice faltered. "I'm sorry. You deserve better than our scorn."

"No – no, I understand," Ronan tried to reassure her, even as his heart sunk. "I'll find some way. Somehow."

She nodded sadly. "I hope you will, Ronan. I certainly hope so."

* * *

Sitting slouched at the bar counter with his elbows propped up on it, Ronan couldn't focus on any particular thought. It seemed as though he was in a mental fog: leaving Nightingale Hall with a heavier heart than he started with, slipping into Riften, walking into the Bee and Barb with all of his thoughts slowly slipping away from him. He'd ordered some Cyrodilic brandy, but the bottle still sat in front of him, untouched and unopened; he hadn't bothered to order any food, knowing that he probably wouldn't eat any.

_What else were you expecting?_ he questioned, almost angrily. _The Guild would never have taken you in, no matter how good of a thief you are. And now here you are, stranded in Skyrim with no idea of where in Oblivion to go._

The Breton sighed irritably and focused on the suddenly tempting brandy bottle ahead of him. _Maybe some alcohol is what I need after all..._

A dry, smooth voice wormed its way into his thoughts. "What's got you down, handsome?"

He turned his head. A tall, wiry Bosmer was sitting on the barstool next to him, but with his back to the counter and leaning back against it instead. His red, shoulder-length hair contrasted with his nut-brown skin and gleaming amber eyes, one of which had a stripe of white warpaint around it. The stubble on his chin did little to hide the long scar running down one side of his angular face; combined with his loose-fitting shirt open at the collar, tight vest and breeches, and high boots, it gave him a bit of a rakish look.

Ronan swallowed uncomfortably, not at all getting a good feeling about this encounter. "None of your business," he snapped with all the gruffness he could manage, glaring for good measure.

The Bosmer chuckled. "Oh, don't look at me like that, gorgeous. It hurts my feelings." He leaned over, tracing the label of the brandy bottle with one thin finger. "You look like you need something a little stronger than that."

"This is fine for me," the Breton said tightly, inching to the side of his stool furthest from the pesky stranger and reaching for the bottle.

"I think you're more than fine for me," the other purred, leaning even further until his upper body was practically draped over the counter. "Sure you don't need any help... _relax__ing_?"

Ronan blinked. "Are you – _propositioning_ me?" he managed.

The Bosmer grinned. "Dibella's tits, handsome, what else did you think I was doing?" He produced a small corked vial from a pouch on his belt, uncorked it, and downed the contents.

"Other than trying to sell me skooma?" the Breton said suspiciously, eying the empty vial. "Or being nosy?"

The other clasped his hand to his chest in a mock-dramatic gesture. "You wound me, Sorleigh. Here I am, trying to help you out, and what do I get for my efforts? An empty purse and a cold, lonely bed." He sighed, rolling the vial between his fingers. "And I don't know about you, sweetheart, but that really boils my balls."

Ronan frowned. "How do you know my name?" he demanded. "And who in Oblivion are you, anyway?"

"Name's Finverior: jack of all trades, master of the more illegal ones." He swiveled his body around on the bar stool so that he mimicked the Breton's position. "And I've been busting my ass trying to find you."

"Why are you –?" He froze suddenly when Finverior draped an arm over his shoulders and leaned in again until his mouth was by his ear.

"Don't look now," the Bosmer whispered, "but see that Altmer at the table over there? He's here to kill you."

Despite the warning, Ronan twisted his head slightly to glance to his side. There was indeed an Altmer, clad in black mage's robes with the hood up, seated at a table in the far corner of the bar, dining on some fish and stew with a slightly sour expression on his face.

Finverior groaned. "Dammit, Sorleigh, what part of 'don't look now' do you not fucking understand?" he hissed.

"At least you're not calling me 'handsome' anymore," the Breton muttered.

"There's still time for me to find a better nickname," the Bosmer reminded with a smirk. "Now listen carefully, because I'm only going to say this once. We're going to leave the bar and go upstairs, and our pal over there is going to follow us. Once we get into my room, we can easily get rid of him. What do you say?"

"Why should I go with you?" Ronan asked through gritted teeth. "You hit on me and tried to sell me skooma! For all I know, you could be in league with this assassin!"

Finverior sighed again. "Look, sweet cheeks, I'm not going to ask you to trust me, because frankly, I'm the last guy _I'd_ want to trust. Just – just go along with it."

Before the other could retort, the Bosmer's arm tightened around his shoulders and his hand pressed hard in the center of Ronan's chest. The Breton became uncomfortably aware of the warmth and proximity of the other's body.

Suddenly, Finverior's lips pressed against his cheek, and Ronan jerked away. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded, flushing bright red.

"Pretending I'm drunk." The Bosmer's head slid down to rest on the other's shoulder as he nuzzled the Breton's neck.

"And here I thought you were just reacting to the skooma," Ronan commented, his words coming out more sarcastic than intended.

Finverior snorted. "Cute. Now haul me upstairs before I throw you over my shoulder and do the same to you."

Tightening his jaw, the Breton wrapped an arm around the elf to support him and then slipped off of the barstool as best he could without dropping the Bosmer. He started towards the stairs, weaving his way through the crowded tables and bustle of people while dragging Finverior behind him.

_Do you know anything about __this – this elf__?_ he asked Nocturnal tentatively. _Did he know Mercer as well?_

There was no answer.

_What's the point of having a Daedric Prince in my head if I can't talk to Her__ – __or Him__ – __or _whatever_ gender they are?_ Ronan thought irritably before hoping desperately that Nocturnal didn't hear that.

"Hey, darling," the Bosmer said, his speech slightly slurred, "you got any lock picks? Because I want to play with your chest." He winked broadly.

The other felt blood rushing into his face as some nearby patrons glanced in their direction, but quickly turned his head from them as he saw that one of them was the Altmer that Finverior had pointed out earlier. _Well, if he wasn't spying on me already, he's definitely looking now,_ the Breton thought sourly.

After what seemed like an eternity, they reached the stairs. Ronan took a deep breath to brace himself and started up, the Bosmer like a deadweight on his arm.

"I don't suppose it would be too much to ask for you to walk now," he muttered.

Finverior grinned up at him, all pretense of being intoxicated dropped. "It isn't every day a dark, handsome man carries me to my room. I'd like to relish this moment."

"Your... _ruse _worked and now we're out of the bar," the Breton retorted, feeling what little patience he had wearing thinner by the minute. "You can walk on your own."

The Bosmer sighed reluctantly, but untangled himself from Ronan. "And here I thought we were having a moment." He continued up the stairs, slapping the other on the rear as he passed. "Move that ass, sunshine. We don't have all night."

Stiffly ascending the stairs, the Breton found himself on the upper floor of the Bee and Barb: a small central hall with doors into private rooms all along the walls. One of the doors was open, and he approached it and entered. There was only a single bed and a tiny nightstand with a threadbare rug on the floor and a wardrobe against the far wall, but no sign of anyone.

Ronan frowned. _Where'd Finverior go?_

Suddenly, he felt something sharp and cold pressing into the small of his back and he froze in place.

"Do not make a sound," the Altmer commanded in an imperious voice. "Raise your hands and turn around slowly."

The Breton obeyed, his throat tightening. Behind him, the assassin, his eyes gleaming in dark triumph, held a conjured blade with the tip just brushing the center of his stomach.

All the color that was previously in his face drained out. _I've been set up._

The Altmer laughed coldly. "No one escapes the Dominion, Ronan Sorleigh." He pressed the sword in a little further. "Know that you have died so that we may rule."

Suddenly, steel flashed through the air and Ronan jerked back to avoid the dagger as it hurtled through the air and drove through the assassin's throat. The conjured blade vanished as the Altmer, face contorted in shock, fell back on the wooden floorboards with a thud.

Finverior squeezed himself out from the gap between the wardrobe and the wall, and then immediately grabbed the body of the assassin and hauled it inside. "A thank-you might be nice, sweetheart, but that can wait until you close the door."

A still-shaken Ronan hastily did so, dragging the nightstand over to barricade the entrance; he noticed the messy blood trail with some discouragement. "Anyone who comes in here will probably notice that."

"And by that time, gorgeous, we'll be long gone." The Bosmer hefted the corpse onto the bed, face-down, and repositioned the dagger so that it was noticeably protruding from the wound. "You injured?"

The other ignored the question. "How did you know that he was an assassin? And how did you know that his target was me?"

"Because I was accompanying him, that's why." Finverior chuckled at the expression on Ronan's face. "Don't worry; I'm not going to kill you. If you've pissed off the Dominion enough to have assassins sent after you, pumpkin, you must be doing something right."

"The – the Aldmeri Dominion – they hired you?" Ronan asked falteringly, not sure whether to be more shocked at the fact that the Dominion wanted him dead or that they hired someone like Finverior to do their work for them.

"One of their affiliates in Daggerfall did. Said that you were supposed to aid in a Thalmor operation in Skyrim, but that you led the agent to his death instead." He scrutinized him, his lips quirked up in amusement. "You, my dear, were _supposed_ to be dangerous – hence, she saddled me with the incompetent bastard I just shanked."

_How do they know about what happened to Valmir?_ "Who was this 'affiliate'?" he inquired, hearing his voice grow fainter and weaker.

"A short, dark-haired Breton with the High Rock Guild – a bit like you, come to think of it, except she had curves in all the right places." The Bosmer grinned lewdly. "Not to say that you don't look tempting or anything, but –"

"What was her name?" Ronan felt his fingernails digging into his palms.

Finverior frowned in thought. "I think it was Marie or Mariette or something like that... except it was her surname..."

"Marat?" By now, his voice was choked.

The other snapped his fingers. "Marat. _That _was it." He peered at the Breton, one eyebrow arched. "You know her, don't you?"

"Jolaine's the Guildmaster of the High Rock Guild," Ronan said, a lump forming in his throat. "I – I've known her a long time." _But not long enough to know who she really was... or the extent of her relationship with the Thalmor..._

"How long are we talking and how well did you know her?" Finverior asked. "Because from where I'm standing, sweet cheeks, it sounds like you two were fu –"

"It's none of your damn business!" the Breton snapped, finally losing his temper. "And she doesn't matter anymore; none of that does!" He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "All I'm looking to do right now is leave Riften. After that..."

_It doesn't matter what I do, as long as I don't go back to Daggerfall._

The Bosmer held up his hands. "Easy there, broody. No need to get so touchy." He pursed his lips in thought, then smirked. "Actually... that's not such a bad idea."

Ronan sighed wearily. _Divines deliver me from this elf. _"I'd rather not."

"Suit yourself, darling. I don't mean to brag, but I've been told I'm excellent between the sheets." Finverior knelt down and dragged out a worn knapsack, a hooded cloak, and a thick, fur-lined robe from underneath the bed. "Unfortunately, I should probably get back to Windhelm as soon as possible and inform my employer of this newest development, which leaves me disappointingly unable to sleep much, let alone _with _anyone."

"Who's your employer?"

The Bosmer dumped the contents of his arms onto a portion of the floor that wasn't bloodstained and then retrieved a strangely crimson-tinted Orcish dagger, a bow of supple, polished black wood, and a quiver of arrows to add to the pile. "Now _that _is a secret."

Ronan scrutinized the other for a moment. For some reason, Finverior's sleazy personality and bright red hair seemed unusually familiar to him.

Then it struck him. "Are you Enthir's nephew? The one working for the High Queen?"

Finverior's head snapped up in surprise. "You know Kajsa, too? Small world, I suppose." He stood up, pulling his robe on and then slinging the knapsack, bow, and quiver over his shoulders. "You one of hers as well?"

"It's a little more complicated than that."

The Bosmer chuckled. "Take my advice: get out of her bedroom while the king's still in the dark. I mean, she's easy on the eyes and all, but her husband once threatened to rip my balls off if I so much as laid a hand on her, so –"

"I'm not sleeping with the High Queen," the Breton said irritably. "That's not what I meant by 'it's a little more complicated.'"

"Alright, be mysterious, then. I like a little mystery in a man." Finverior threw his cloak over his shoulders and sheathed the dagger in his belt. "If you're going back to Windhelm as well, sunshine, traveling together's not out of the question for me."

Ronan hesitated. Then, it dawned on him and he almost smiled. _Why not? It's not like I have anywhere else to go._

"I'm not going that way, actually, but... do you happen to know how to get to Dayspring Canyon? I think it's southeast of Riften somewhere..."

* * *

**[A/N] Well, I think we know where Ronan's off to... more on that next chapter! And as a reminder, reviews are always welcome and appreciated (and not to mention adored)!**


	12. Dawnguard

**********************[A/N] I will make this brief, because I'm posting this chapter in the middle of English class and trying not to get caught by the substitute teacher. So this author's note ends here. ;)**

**********************[D****************************************************************************************ISCLAIMER] I do not own The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or anything related to it; that's Bethesda's deal, not mine (sadly). However, Ronan Sorleigh************************************************************************************************************ is my original character, and he belongs to me.**

* * *

**_CHAPTER XII – Dawnguard_**

Despite the slight mist hanging over the path ahead, Dayspring Canyon lived up to its name. Low-growing bushes and slim birches grew at the base of the mountains surrounding it, and the rushing of water echoed somewhere ahead. Aside from that and a thrush faintly chirping nearby, there was a calm still in the canyon.

Pulling back his hood, Ronan closed his eyes and tilted his head up, letting the warm, early-morning sun warm his face. The weather in the Rift was relatively balmy compared to the rest of Skyrim; with a pang, he realized it reminded him a bit of High Rock.

_But I'm still some distance away from anything remotely familiar..._

"Oh, hey there! You here to join the Dawnguard, too?"

The Breton opened his eyes at the voice. In front of him stood a blond Nord man wearing a well-worn green tunic with an axe hanging at the belt. He looked to be about Ronan's age and he had a friendly, open face.

"I – I suppose I am," Ronan said, unsure of what to say. "I'm Ronan. Ronan Sorleigh," he added, holding out his hand.

"I'm Agmaer." Grinning, the Nord shook his hand briefly. "Are you from Skyrim?"

The other hesitated. "Yes. I'm from Riften." _I may have lived the last decade or so of my life in Daggerfall, but... I wasn't born there and I wasn't raised there._

"You must have had no trouble getting here, then!" Agmaer laughed. "My family lives in Rorikstead; I've never been this far outside of Whiterun Hold before!"

Ronan smiled weakly. Even though he'd poured over the map of Skyrim he'd bought back in Markarth, he'd been unable to find Dayspring Canyon until Finverior had marked it out for him. The Bosmer had offered to guide him there ("There's nothing like sleeping under the stars – especially when you can keep warm with someone," he'd said with a sleazy smile), but Ronan had declined; he'd had more than his share of strangers who knew who he was, let alone libidinous elven assassins.

"Truth is, I'm a little nervous," the Nord confessed. "I've never done anything like this before. I hope you don't mind if I walk up with you."

"Not at all."

"Thanks." Agmaer fell into step beside him as they began to walk again. "Hey, uh, please don't tell Isran I was afraid to meet him by myself. Not the best first impression for a new vampire hunter, I guess." He laughed shakily.

"Don't worry about it," the Breton assured. "I'm not exactly good with first impressions myself."

"You look like you've killed lots of vampires, though," the other said, admiring Ronan's leathers and the daggers at his belt and the bow on his back. "I bet Isran'll sign you right up."

"Actually, I've never killed a vampire. I have killed one of the hounds they keep around them, though." Ronan felt a chill creeping down his neck at the memory of the beast's red eyes and slavering mouth.

"Really?" Agmaer looked impressed. "Some of those things – death hounds, we call 'em – attacked a few of the farms in Rorikstead. Nobody got killed, fortunately, but they slaughtered a few goats and a cow. I hear they're tough to put down."

"Is that why you're here?" the Breton asked.

The other nodded. "Rorikstead's been lucky, but I've heard about the vampire attacks on other towns. I – I just want to help in any way I can."

Ronan swallowed. "That's admirable." _Certainly more noble than running away from your past... seeking to start over somewhere where no one knows your face or your father..._

"So why are you –?" Agmaer's voice trailed off as he stared up ahead. "Is that – is that Fort Dawnguard?"

The Breton followed his gaze, his breath catching in his throat. A massive fortress of smooth grey stone loomed ahead of them and towered above the birch saplings around it, seeming to spring from the mountainside itself. For a structure that seemed to be in good repair, the architecture was strangely old-fashioned, almost simplistic in its design. But Ronan had to remind himself that this was no noble's palace that one might find in Cyrodiil or High Rock, but a castle: harsh, forbidding, and meant for war.

"Where is everyone?" the Nord wondered out loud. "This place looks deserted."

Nodding in agreement, the other scanned the walls. From what he could see of the battlements through the thin, square crenellations, they were deserted.

"Maybe what men they have are inside the fort," Agmaer ventured. "I mean, if they're out recruiting people, they can't have that many to begin with." He paused. "Do you hear that?"

The Breton listened carefully. In the relative quiet of the canyon, there came a _thunk_ not too far off. It sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it.

His companion started walking again, and Ronan followed him. As the two continued up the path, they heard the sound again, this time louder and closer, and accompanied not long after by a mechanical cranking noise.

Halfway up the hill, they came upon a small clearing near the base of one of the towers, littered with tree stumps. Durak was standing in the center with the strange bow-like contraption that the Breton had seen him use against the vampire in Winterhold up by his shoulder; as he and Agmaer watched, the Orc took aim and fired at a splintered tree trunk on the other edge of the clearing. The bolt had burrowed into the trunk before Ronan could blink.

Briefly appraising his shot, Durak turned around to see them. "Well, well," he chuckled. "I guess you decided to come after all, Sorleigh. And you brought a friend."

Ronan pointed at the Orc's weapon, now balanced on one broad shoulder. "What's that you're shooting with?" he asked, not even trying to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

"Never seen a crossbow, eh? Not surprised. They're kind of a Dawnguard specialty." Durak held up the crossbow so the Breton could see it better; Ronan noticed that it was indeed like a miniature bow, but fixed on a wooden stock with a notch in the center for the bolt, a trigger underneath, and a handle to pull back the string. "They might take a little time to reload, but they're fast and powerful. Nothing better for putting down vampires."

The Breton held out his hands. "Do you mind if I try?"

"Practice with your own." The Orc gestured towards a nearby stump, where another crossbow and a small pouch of bolts lay. "You'll want to get to know how to use it if you plan to join the Dawnguard."

Ronan walked to the stump and picked up the crossbow; unlike his bow, the melding of wood and steel felt strange and heavy in his hands. Pulling out one of the bolts, he carefully fed it in.

"Now crank that back," Durak directed, tapping the handle.

The Breton did so with some effort, watching the string getting pulled taut as the bars over the pivots on the handle slid back.

"Takes practice to pull that back quickly," the Orc said gruffly. "Now put it up by your shoulder, aim for that trunk over there, and pull the trigger. Keep it steady," he warned as Ronan's arm started to shake a little under the unfamiliar weight. "Now shoot."

His finger closed around the trigger and the bolt hissed through the air, driving into the tree trunk with a _thunk_. The Breton squinted at his target, feeling some pride that he'd even hit the trunk at all.

"Not bad for a first shot," Durak said after a moment. "Keep working on that aim, though. You'll need a stronger arm if you're going to take out a vampire with one bolt." He handed the pouch of bolts along with a leather back holster over to Ronan. "Take these with you, Sorleigh. Crossbow won't do you much good without 'em."

Nodding his thanks, the Breton turned away, fitting the pouch onto his belt just before one of his dagger sheaths. He slid the crossbow into the holster, but tucked the apparatus under his arm, resolving to put it on later. "Is Isran up in the fort?"

"Yeah. He's arguing with some Vigilant now, so he'll probably be more than happy to talk to you for a change." The Orc snorted with disdain. "Damn Vigilants. In any case, good luck."

"Thanks." Ronan started walking again, navigating the roughly cleared oath upwards.

Agmaer, previously hanging back, caught up to him. "You know him?"

"I've met Durak before. He's the one who convinced me to join." It amazed and dismayed him how easily the half-lies were slipping off his tongue.

"Did you hear what he said about a Vigilant?" The Nord's brow was furrowed with confusion. "I'd heard the Hall of the Vigilant had been attacked, but I hadn't heard about survivors."

Ronan shrugged, inwardly hoping that the Orc hadn't been talking about Vigilant Cadarn; he didn't look forward to encountering her again. "We'll just have to see, I suppose."

Agmaer didn't look encouraged, but he nodded. "By the way, how exactly do you fire this?" he asked, pointing at the crossbow.

Grateful for the change of subject, the Breton brought it out and began to explain as they continued to walk up.

* * *

Compared to the bright, yet soft sunlight outside, the interior of Fort Dawnguard was pitch-black. But as his eyes adjusted to the sudden change in light, Ronan noticed that the circular main hall with the high ceiling and worn banners hanging off the walls was actually well-lit, unlike the various dim hallways that branched off of it.

A deep growl of a voice caught his attention. "Why are you here, Tolan? The Vigilants and I were finished with each other long ago."

Still remaining in the shadows by the door, the Breton looked towards the hall's center. The owner of the voice was a bald Redguard man with a bushy black beard, wearing armor similar to Durak's with the long handle of a warhammer protruding from behind his shoulder; he stood across from a solidly built Nord man with blond sideburns, wearing the distinctive robes of the Vigil of Stendarr along with steel plate gauntlets and boots.

"You know why I'm here," the Vigilant – _Tolan_, Ronan corrected – said accusingly. "The Vigilants are under attack everywhere. The vampires are much stronger than we believed."

"And now you want to come running to safety with the Dawnguard, is that it?" the other finished, some trace of disgust in his voice; the Breton guessed that he must be Isran. "I remember Keeper Carcette telling me repeatedly that Fort Dawnguard was a crumbling ruin, worth neither the expense nor the manpower to repair. And now that you've stirred up the vampires against you, you come begging for my protection?"

"Isran, Carcette is dead." The Vigilant's face was stricken. "The Hall of the Vigilant is destroyed and everyone... everyone is dead. You were right and we were wrong. My wife is dead and my daughter is missing. Isn't that enough for you?"

With a start, Ronan took a closer look at Tolan. The color of his matted hair, his carriage, the way his jaw was set with outrage... it was all very reminiscent of Fenella. *The resemblance from father to daughter isn't as strong as it could be... but it's there.*

"Yes, well... I never wanted this to happen, if that's any consolation," Isran said gruffly. "I tried to warn you, you know... I am sorry it's come to this."

The Vigilant's lips tightened, obviously not believing the insincere apology.

Looking past him, the other's eyes narrowed as he saw Ronan and Agmaer standing by the door. "Who are you? And what do you want?"

Sensing that his companion wouldn't step forward, the Breton took a deep breath and walked out towards the center of the hall. "My name's Ronan Sorleigh. I heard from Durak that you needed vampire hunters."

Isran nodded brusquely. "Durak told you right. I'm glad word's starting to get around, but it won't be long until the vampires start to take notice as well." He gestured around him at the dusty, cobwebbed corners of the hall. "As you can probably see, there's not much to join yet. I've only just started rebuilding the order."

"Well, I'm sure I can help," Ronan maintained.

"Hmm." Crossing his arms, the Redguard scrutinized him critically. "Aside from that crossbow you filched, what's your weapon?"

"Daggers." He tapped one of the hilts at his side. "I like the bow, though. I prefer to keep some distance."

"Not exactly cut out for close combat, are you?" Isran mused, frowning. "You hardly look you can wear heavy armor, let alone wield a warhammer."

The Breton shook his head.

"Bow's better than nothing. It'll help you with the crossbow," the Redguard said gruffly. "I need someone out in the field, taking the fight to the vampires while I'm getting the fort back in shape. Think you can do that?"

Ronan nodded, relieved.

"Good. Tolan –" he turned back to the Vigilant "– tell him about that cave – Dimhollow, was it?"

"Yes, that's right. Dimhollow Crypt." All of the anger had gone out of Tolan, but his manner was still stiff and wary. "Brother Adalvald was sure that it held some long-lost vampire artifact of some kind, but – but we didn't listen to him any more than we did Isran. He was at the Hall when it was attacked..." He trailed off.

"That's good enough for me." Isran addressed Ronan again. "Dimhollow Crypt's about half a day from Whiterun, in the mountains on the hold's northern border. Go see what the vampires were looking for; with any luck, they'll still be there."

The Vigilant spoke again, weary, but resolute. "I'll meet you at Dimhollow. It's the least I can do to avenge my fallen comrades."

The Redguard let out a sigh. "Tolan, I don't think that's a good idea. You Vigilants were never trained for –"

"I know what you think of us." Tolan's voice was biting. "You think we're soft, that we're cowards. You think our deaths proved our weakness. Stendarr grant that you do not have to face the same test and be found wanting." Face like stone, he turned around, facing Ronan. "I'm going to Dimhollow Crypt, whether you like it or not."

The Breton swallowed. "Vigilant Tolan... you said you had a daughter..."

"Yes. Fenella. She was a Vigilant as well. I – I do not know if she was at the Hall – if she –" His eyes lowered.

"She's alive. I saw her in Windhelm, asking for aid to go after the vampires who committed the attack." Ronan left out the part about Ulfric's refusal.

Thankfully, the other did not ask. "She's alive... gods be praised." His face softened with relief. "I'll head for Windhelm and see if I can find her before I meet with you at Dimhollow. My daughter can definitely help us." He clasped the Breton's hand and shook it. "Thank you so much."

All Ronan could do was nod dumbly as the Vigilant released his hand and continued on his path towards the door. _Is it really so strange to hear someone thanking me instead of cursing me?_

Isran spoke in the still after the doors closed behind Tolan. "Feel free to look around the fort and take what supplies you'll need." He gestured towards one of the doorways leading off of the main hall. "Barracks are that way. Some of the other recruits should be around here somewhere."

Ronan thought of Ranmir and made a mental note to avoid that doorway. "Thank you for your offer, but –"

"That wasn't a suggestion, Sorleigh. This your first time fighting vampires?"

"In a manner of speaking –"

The Redguard smiled humorlessly. "Then you'll need some supplies – especially if you're going into a place like Dimhollow."

Suppressing a quiet sigh, the Breton nodded and turned towards one of the other halls. Behind him, he heard Isran growling at Agmaer to step forward, but he barely paid attention to it.

_You can hardly avoid things forever, Ronan._

Startled at Nocturnal's voice, he nearly stopped in his tracks, his reluctant acceptance turning into irritation. _Where have you been?_ he demanded. _I needed you last night and you weren't there._

_Do not presume that you can command me. _The Daedric Prince's voice was nothing less than frigid. _And you were in no real danger. Finverior may be..._ difficult_, but he is more competent than he seems._

Finding a rickety-looking bench nearby, Ronan sat down, making sure he was out of sight of the main hall. _Is he – is he another one like me? Can he hear Your will?_

Nocturnal laughed. _Hardly. He may be a thief – among other things – but the Bosmer's soul does not belong to me._

_Did you manipulate me?_ he finally asked. _Make it so I'd end up here?_

There was silence for a moment. Then: _Ronan, if there is one thing you must learn, it is that there is a very fine line between chance and fate._

_Is that a yes or a no?_

He could almost hear the slight smile in her words. _All you need to know, Ronan, is that this is where your path has led you... for now._

* * *

**[A/N] Next chapter: surprises in Dimhollow Crypt (and elsewhere). In the meantime, review!**


	13. Lost and Found

**********************[A/N] ...I realized that I'm not going to have any time to write this weekend (curse you, set construction... and essays for AP classes), so here's another early chapter. They're coming a little easier now that I'm writing quest-based things, but not by much. :)**

**********************[D****************************************************************************************ISCLAIMER] I do not own The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or anything related to it; that's Bethesda's deal, not mine (sadly). However, Ronan Sorleigh, Kajsa Red-Blade, and Finverior are************************************************************************************************************ my original characters, and they belong to me.**

* * *

_**CHAPTER**__** XIII**__** –**__** Lost and Found**_

Dimhollow Crypt was neither colder nor warmer than the world outside, but at the very least, the effects of the wind were significantly lessened; despite the fact that he was chilled to the bone from the heavy, wet snow falling on him throughout his journey north, Ronan was grateful that the storm's gales were not making that worse. Much more than once, he'd found himself thanking his good sense for telling him to buy a fur cloak before he left for Skyrim. _I don't know how Nords can live here, let alone people of other races._

The storm hadn't helped him much as far as finding the cave was concerned; the Breton was nearly positive that he'd been lost far before it started snowing. But after trekking all over the northern side of the mountains with his map out (and attempting to shield it from the ravages of the weather), he'd hit upon a steep path that'd led him here. Unlike the other caves he'd come across, there'd been a lit lantern outside – _perhaps indicating that someone was still inside? _he'd thought with a shiver. After checking his map once again, it had been confirmed: this was indeed Dimhollow Crypt.

The ground by the entrance of the cave was still covered in a light layer of snow, and his frozen feet protested as he continued up the slight incline, barely making a sound. Ronan examined the snow for footprints and was not long in finding a second, larger set. _Tolan? Or a vampire?_

"Those Vigilants never know when to give up," came a raspy voice from not far off. "I thought we taught them enough of a lesson at their hall."

His breath stopping in his throat, the Breton pressed himself against the cave wall and prayed that he was out of sight of whatever was up ahead.

"To come in here alone... a fool like all the rest of them," another, lower voice agreed.

Ronan's eyes flitted towards the footprints – Tolan's footprints – again. _He got here before I did... but he did not wait. _He swallowed.

"He fought well, though," the first vampire continued, almost conversationally. "Jeron and Bresoth were no match for him."

"The better for us," the second countered. "Their arrogance had become insufferable."

"All this talk is making me thirsty. Perhaps another Vigilant will wander in soon," the first mused with a sinister chuckle.

"I wish Lokil would hurry it up," the second vampire said scathingly. "I have half a mind to return to the castle and tell Harkon what a fool he's entrusted this mission to."

"And I have half a mind to tell Lokil of your disloyalty," the other threatened.

"You wouldn't dare," the second hissed. "Now shut up and keep on watch."

Heart pounding, Ronan closed his eyes and tried to think. Now he knew for a fact that the vampires were still here, looking for _something – _and Tolan was dead. He was alone and virtually stranded, and as much as he wanted to, he couldn't go back to Fort Dawnguard and just lie to Isran about Dimhollow – _even though I'd probably be capable of that, _he thought sourly.

But his one clear option was apparent. All that remained was to execute it.

Crouching down, the Breton crept up to the mouth of the tunnel and peered beyond. The main cavern was wide and low-ceilinged, with natural rock formations rising from the ground and acting as pillars of a sort. Craggy outcroppings covered in snow contrasted with the trickling stream running through the cave's lowest points. He thought he could see another entrance beyond, but he couldn't be sure through the small waterfall of mountain water that obscured his view.

On the other side of the cavern, a shadow moved, and Ronan realized with a start that it was a death hound: black, hulking, and prowling around the tunnel there. _With the two vampires, that makes three... and however many others are within. But where are the other two?_

As if to answer his previous question, a figure moved out from behind one of the pillars, followed closely by another: both wearing dark leather armor that contrasted with their pallid faces and gleaming eyes.

Trying to keep his breathing steady, the Breton carefully slid out the crossbow from the holster on his back and loaded a bolt as quietly as he could, dreading a tell-tale click or a shifting of snow that might indicate his position. Bringing it up to his shoulder, he scanned the scene ahead of him for a moment before deciding on his target. He pulled the trigger and –

_Thunk._

Two things happened within a second of the bolt being released. The death hound collapsed with a growling whine, and the two vampires whirled around, ice crackling in their open palms. Relieved that he didn't miss and terrified that he'd been discovered, Ronan grabbed another bolt, reloaded the crossbow as fast as he could, aimed again, and fired.

The second bolt grazed the neck of one, and the wounded vampire snarled. Hastily reloading, the Breton fired again; this time, much to his relief, he didn't miss, and the vampire dropped to the snow with a bolt in his chest.

_But there's still one more..._

Almost before he could react, the last vampire was halfway up the path and sprinting straight towards him, teeth bared and eyes blazing. Panic welling up in him, Ronan lashed out with the crossbow, and it caught the vampire on the side of the head. As his attacker reeled from the blow, the Breton unsheathed one of his daggers and stabbed blindly.

The vampire tumbled off the ledge and landed with a _thud _on the uneven rocks below, where it lay still. Breathing heavily, Ronan knelt with shaking knees and wiped his dagger off on the snow, staining it with dark blood. _It's a good thing my reflexes are still up to par._

_No need to thank me. _Nocturnal sounded rather smug.

He blinked out of surprise; he hadn't expected to hear from her. _What do You mean?_

_Without my aid, you would not have been able to see those vampires, let alone be silent and quick enough to kill them. You seem to forget that I am in the habit of looking out for those I favor._

_It seems like You're giving me reasons not to oppose You. _He stood up, sheathing his dagger and sliding the crossbow back into its sheath, and continued down the path while being careful of ice. _I don't need Your gifts._

_Perhaps. But without them, it would be the vampires walking and not you._

_Should I grow used to Your interference, then? _he asked dryly.

Ronan could almost hear the Daedric Prince shrugging. _If you deem it necessary. Mortals should not get in the habit of "growing used" to the finite things around them._

_But are You not _in_finite?_ He'd reached the outcropping, noticing that the death hound's corpse lay beside those of three other vampires and a larger, bloodier one; the Breton averted his eyes when he saw that the tattered purple robes of Vigilant Tolan clothed the mauled body.

_My favor rarely lasts that long._

_Then I'll appreciate it while it lasts, _he countered, looking towards the tunnel opening and seeing that it was covered by a rusting gate.

Nocturnal laughed. _A wise decision._

Ignoring her, Ronan trudged off to try and find some way to get the gate open.

* * *

"This has been a more trying week than usual," Finverior sighed dramatically, falling back into an empty seat by the roaring fire. "If at all possible, Your Highness, I'd like a substantial raise, some strong alcohol, and a good roll in the hay."

Occupying the other chair with a fur mantle around her shoulders and Torgnyr cradled in her lap, Kajsa raised an eyebrow. "You seem to have no trouble finding the latter two, and your pay can be re-negotiated at another time. How about your report?"

"Let me at least warm up first. My extremities are _freezing._" The Bosmer made a show of putting his hands up to the hearth and then rubbing them together. "Tonight's storm is even stormier than usual, and this drafty old palace isn't helping matters any."

The Dragonborn unwound her mantle with one hand, being careful not to disturb her son, and held it out. "You can borrow this for the moment."

"Much obliged, Your Highness." Finverior leaned over to grab the mantle, smiling slightly when he saw the sleeping Torgnyr. "In case I haven't said this before, he's not a bad-looking kid."

Kajsa returned the gesture, albeit a bit wearily. "He resembles his father more than he does me, and I'm grateful for that."

"Well, he might look just like the High King when he gets older, but for now, that huge nose does not look attractive on a baby." The Bosmer lightly tapped the little prince's nose before he retreated back to his seat and swathed himself in the fur mantle. "Not that I'm saying there's anything wrong with big noses; your husband looks particularly nice with one," he added with a grin. "And you know what they say about the... _endowments_ of men with big noses –"

"– and I am certain that they have nothing to do with your report," the other retorted coolly. "Not unless you somehow seduced Ulfric along the way."

Finverior chuckled. "I wish. A strong, brooding man like him might be just what I need to turn my night around."

Kajsa smiled frostily. "The report, Finn."

"I was getting to it!" he protested, laughing even harder. "You know I'm only messing with you, Your Highness."

"It's hard to tell at times," the Dragonborn said dryly. "Now, about Valenwood –"

"Valenwood? Same old, same old: crawling with walking trees and Thalmor and only one of those has a right to be there." Finverior sighed, almost angrily. "But the truly interesting part came on the way home."

"Would this have something to do with the reason you're late?" Kajsa asked a trifle tartly.

"Yeah, it does. The Night Mother decided to drop in on my mind on the voyage up to the Iliac Bay." He scowled. "It came at a _very_ inopportune time. Is that dusty old hag always in the habit of catching her Listeners with their pants down?"

_Seeing as I was still celibate during that time in my life, I wouldn't know._ She settled for shrugging noncommittally. "I had to leave you some surprises. Who had the contract?"

"Your best friend in the High Rock Guild, Jolaine Marat. Only you never mentioned how attractive she was," the Bosmer added, grinning. "For shame."

The Dragonborn frowned. "Marat carried out the Black Sacrament? On who?"

"Hold your horses, Your Highness; I'm getting there." Finverior leaned back in his seat, stretching out his legs. "So I make a little side trip to Daggerfall to go see her, and she meets me in the back room of some pretentious tavern with some Thalmor goons. Something tells me," he added ominously, "that they were handling her more than she was handling them."

"They didn't recognize you, did they?" Kajsa asked suddenly, alarmed.

"Nah," the Bosmer dismissed, waving his hand flippantly. "I had my cowl and face mask on; my own grandmother wouldn't have known who I was. And it's not like they would have recognized me without it. Their bounty poster artists_ never _get my cheekbones right, let alone my nose."

_He's been lucky, then__... far more than I._ The scars on her cheek tingled at his words, but the Dragonborn ignored them. "Who did she – or the Thalmor – want dead?"

"One of the Senior Operatives in the Guild. Name's Ronan Sorleigh." He squinted at the shocked expression on Kajsa's face. "I take you know him after all."

"He's a recent acquaintance," the Dragonborn said tightly, regaining control of herself. "And what do you mean by 'after all'?"

"He told me that he knew you. Yeah, I met him a night or so ago," Finverior hurried on before she could get a word in. "I and the Thalmor assassin that Marat sent with me caught up to him in Riften. I took care of the Thalmor and sent Sorleigh on his merry way." He sighed wistfully. "Pity. He was kinda cute, in an adorably flustered, irritated way."

Kajsa studiously ignored him, pursing her lips in thought. "Did Marat offer any reason for why Ronan had to die?"

"Not a terribly compelling reason, anyway. She murmured something about 'taking care of liabilities' or something like that. The Thalmor agent with her was a bit more explicit; she said quite bluntly that Sorleigh had murdered a Dominion operative while on a top-secret mission to Skyrim."

"This Thalmor agent with Marat..." the Dragonborn said slowly, a dreadful thought growing in her head, "what did she look like?"

"Tall, imperious, expression like she was perpetually smelling something bad underneath her nose. Pale blonde hair, voice just short of shrill. Thoroughly unpleasant, but the Thalmor aren't known for being comedians." The Bosmer stopped. "Do you know her? It's sounding like you do."

"Yes, unfortunately." Kajsa's face looked grim; without realizing it, her arms had tightened around Torgnyr ever so slightly. "You just described former First Emissary Elenwen."

* * *

Despite repeatedly telling himself that he should be focused on other matters – like survival – Ronan could not help but think to himself in a rather uncharacteristically dry manner that Dimhollow Crypt certainly lived up to its name. It was definitely dim, with its winding tunnels that were shrouded in shadow and chambers that were nearly impossible to see in. No matter how quietly he tried to move, his footfalls seemed to echo in the still, highlighting the hollow barrenness of the ancient passages.

As for the title of 'crypt'... between the revived skeletons, the terrifying walking corpses with unearthly blue eyes, the death hounds, the giant spiders, and one or two vampires, there was no doubt in the Breton's mind why this place had earned that name: there was nothing alive and good there.

Even though his strategy of striking from afar with his crossbow was working well, he considered himself very lucky that he'd made it this far while relatively unscathed. His sleeve was ripped and his arm bleeding from the bite of a death hound that had gotten a little too close, and he was feeling slightly ill to his stomach from the effects of the Cure Poison potion purging the spider venom from his system.

Carefully closing the small wooden door behind him and sliding down to the cold stone floor in near exhaustion, Ronan wondered how much farther he had to go. _I don't want to fail... but I'm not sure if I _can_ go much farther..._

From beyond the small chamber he'd entered into, a labored, but defiant voice came from below. "I'll never tell you anything, vampire. My oath to Stendarr is stronger than any suffering you can inflict upon me –" His voice cut off abruptly.

Getting to his feet as silently as he could and tightening his hold on his crossbow, the Breton crept out of the chamber, sparing only a glance towards the disturbing statues flanking the door, and towards the railing outside. He dared not look over, for fear he might be seen. _They might have already heard me... I don't know how good a vampire's senses are..._

"Are you sure that was wise, Lokil?" a raspy voice (_the voice of a vampire,_ Ronan identified with a chill) questioned with a hint of impudence. "He still might have told us something. We haven't gotten anywhere with –"

"He knew nothing," an arrogant-sounding voice (_Lokil, most likely_, the Breton thought) interrupted. "He served his purpose by leading us to this place. Now it is up to us to bring Harkon the prize."

_Harkon. _Ronan remembered the name from the conversation he'd overheard earlier. _Is he another vampire? And are these all under his command?_

"And we will not return without it," Lokil continued in a tone that brooked no argument. "Vingalmo and Orthjolf – perhaps even our Lord's latest overly important lackey – will make way for me after this."

"Yes, of course, Lokil." The other vampire sounded singularly unimpressed. "Do not forget who brought you the news of the Vigilants' discovery."

Lokil laughed haughtily, sending shivers down Ronan's spine. "I never forget who my friends are. Or my enemies."

As soon as the Breton heard the sound of receding footsteps, he carefully peeked over the top of the railing and immediately froze in place. _By the Eight... what is that?_

Ronan's eyes went to the very center of the massive cavern, where a circular stone platform ringed with thin, strangely arched walls rose above the still, dark waters of an underground lake. The two indistinct figures of the vampires were crossing a single, slender bridge that led from the network of stairs he was at the top of over to it. From this distance, the Breton couldn't see if there was anything in the center of the platform _– __but whatever the vampires are looking for must be nearby.__.._

Spurred on, Ronan crept down the stairs as quietly and as quickly as he could: no easy task considering that they were steep, crumbling, and shrouded in shadow. Once or twice, he felt himself begin to lose his footing, but he hastily readjusted his position so as not to fall.

The Breton finally found himself on the dais that connected to the bridge; it was made of stone, like all of the other structures, but nature seemed more intent on reclaiming it than any other. He inched forward, glimpsing the bloodied body of another Vigilant lying limp to his left and shuddering involuntarily. _These creatures show no mercy._

He still could not see whatever was in the center of the circular platform, but he could glimpse the vampires, who seemed to be arguing nearer the outskirts of it. Checking to make sure that his crossbow was loaded, Ronan brought it up to his shoulder and aimed for what seemed to be the closer of the two.

His heart tightened in fear as the bolt whistled through the air, and then loosened again when he heard the tell-tall _thunk _of the tip driving into flesh. One of the vampires fell, and the other's eyes, glowing orange in the dim light, snapped towards the shore.

Mouth dry, Ronan fumbled for another bolt and loaded the crossbow again, praying that it would hit. He looked up to aim and saw that the remaining vampire was nearly all the way over the bridge.

The vampire laughed. "I knew I smelled blood!" He lunged for the Breton, hands curled into claws around floating orbs of ice.

Ronan rolled out of the way, the Frostbite spell freezing the ground where he'd once been. He drew one of his daggers and launched himself at the vampire's back, driving the blade between his shoulders. The vampire stiffened and dropped to the stone, and the Breton fell with him, the air rushing out of his lungs.

After a few moments of sucking in deep breaths, Ronan picked himself up, yanking his dagger out and wiping it off on a section of the dead vampire's robes before sheathing it. _Close combat is not for me._

_You seem to manage__,_ Nocturnal commented wryly.

The Breton sighed; it unsettled him that he'd resigned himself to Her presence. _Only because You help me._

_How can you determine that?_ Her question was suspiciously coy.

_Because I know,_ he snapped, holstering his crossbow and starting across the bridge. _I can feel it when You're influencing me._

She laughed softly. _Not always, my dear. Not always._

Swallowing, Ronan focused on the mysterious platform that he found himself on. Now that he was standing within it, he now realized why he couldn't see through; there was another disjointed set of arches within the outer wall. They encircled the center, along with a series of deep grooves in the floor that ringed and radiated from a single, low pillar at their heart.

Stepping up to the pillar, the Breton curiously ran his hand over its domed top. Before he could react, a spike shot up from it, lancing cleanly through his left palm.

"Son of a bitch –" he choked out, wincing as he carefully slid his hand off the spike. Blood covered his hand, dripping down over the pillar and running down the sides.

Suddenly, Ronan stumbled back from the pillar, watching in amazement and fear as rippling flames of the deepest purple sprang up from one of the grooved rings surrounding him and rushed out one of the radiating lines. A tall brazier standing there caught alight with the strange flame.

For a moment, he was afraid that he was trapped in here – _caught in a trap triggered with my own blood. _Tentatively taking a step forward, the Breton examined his wounded hand and then touched a single finger to the flame. Much to his surprise, the fire felt _cold._

Encouraged by this, he backed up a bit and then took a running leap through the flames. Ronan felt a chill like no other pass over his body, but after he was safe on the outside, he looked over what skin he had exposed: no damage aside from what was already there.

Reaching for a healing potion from his pack, he dribbled some of the phial's content over his palm and then examined the scene before him as he tucked it away and waited for his flesh to knit itself together again. For the first time, he noticed other braziers that had been placed in the grooves, but only the one he saw before was lit, flames dancing in it.

The Breton flexed his hand experimentally; aside from slight twinges in the center of his palm, it seemed to be all right, but he resolved to get it checked by a healer as soon as he could, perhaps at the Temple of Kynareth he'd seen in Whiterun. _But first... to see what this is all about._

The longer he looked, an idea formed in his head. Seeing that there was another brazier beside him, this one unlit, he pressed his palms against its underside and then drew them away just as quickly for fear of more hidden spikes. Despite the momentary pressure, the brazier moved.

_So they're _meant_ to be arranged to catch the flame,_ he mused. _Let's see if I can do that..._

Pushing against the brazier, Ronan managed to direct it along the groove and towards the first ring of fire that had sprung up. As he predicted, both the brazier and another groove nearby caught flame.

Moving around the circle, the Breton painstakingly moved each brazier into place, watching the eerie purple fire issue from the stones and grow even higher. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally shoved the final brazier into its place in the center, ignoring his complaining muscles.

Suddenly, the flame rushed along the grooves towards the centermost ring, leaping around the spiked pillar as the stones beneath it split. Ronan took a step back and nearly fell as the platform sunk behind him into steps. A pool of purple fire formed around the pillar and vibrant tendrils of energy snaked up towards the cavern's ceiling as the pillar rose, exposing what was beneath it: a monolith of black stone emerging from the fires themselves.

The purple flame vanished abruptly, leaving the cavern as dim and shadowy as it had been before. As the Breton made a cautious move forward, one of the monolith's sides slid away with a scraping of stone, revealing what lay underneath.

Ronan's jaw dropped. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting the vampires to be looking for... but it wasn't _this._

Inside the monolith was a woman.

* * *

**[A/N] Next week: we meet you-know-who (*cough cough* Serana *cough*) and we catch up with a certain angry Vigilant. In the meantime, please don't hesitate to review! It would be nice to have some encouraging words to power me through the days ahead... and I'm _this close _to one hundred reviews! ;)**


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